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MRS.  STEPHENS'  ILLUSTRATED  NEW  MONTHLY 
HAS  NOW  BEEN  ESTABLISHED  ONE  YEAR,  and  the  favorable 
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It  has  now  assumed  a  permanent  position  among  American 
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Its  form  is  a  novelty ;  its  style  unique  and  beautiful ;  its  Illus 
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It  has  been  frequently  called  "  The  Most  Beautiful  Magazine  in 
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It  is,  undoubtedly,  the  cheapest  in  America. 

In  the  Number  for  July,  1857,  the  first  issue  of  the  Third 
Volume,  will  be  commenced  a  new  Novelette,  entitled, 

THE     ROYAL      SISTERS, 

BY  MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 

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Mrs.   Ann  S.   Stephens'  Novels. 

New  Editions,  uniform  with  "  The  Heiress  of  Greenhurst" 
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I. 

Fashion     and     Famine. 

There  is  no  sorrow  for  the  earnest  soul 
That  looketh  up  to  God  in  perfect  faith. 

"  As  a  work  of  art,  irrespective  of  its  pure  morality, 
its  high-toned  sentiment,  and  deep  and  true  womanly 
feeling,  it  is  among  the  very  best  fictions  we  have  read 
for  years.  The  characters  are  contrasted  with  true  ar^is- 
tic  talent,  their  peculiarities  are  admirably  presented, 
and  never  overdrawn.  The  plot  is  eminently  original, 
and  yet  probable." — New  York  Express. 

II. 

The    Old     H  omestead. 

There  are  some  human  souls  serenely  bright, 
Born,  like  lost  cherubim,  so  close  to  heaven, 

That  all  their  lives  are  radiant  with  its  light, 
And  unto  such  are  holy  missions  given. 

"Seldom  have  we  had  a  more  truthful,  a  more  charm 
ing  glimpse  of  rural  life.    In  parts  it  is  highly  dramatic  ; 
and  all  its  aim  is  pure  and  lofty.   Mary  Fuller  is  a  crea 
tion  of  which  any  living  author  might  well  be  proud. "- 
New  York  Daily  Times. 

Mailed,  free  of  Postage^  on  receipt  of  Price. 

EDWARD  STEPHENS,  Publisher, 

126  Nassau  street,  New  York 


THE 


HEIRESS  OF  (mEENHURST, 


BY    MRSr-  ANN    S. '  STEPHENS, 

// 

AUTHOB  OF  "FASHION  AND  FAMINE,"  "THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD,"  ETC.,  KTO. 


NEW   YORK: 
EDWARD    STEPHENS,    PUBLISHER, 

126  NASSAU   STREET. 
1857. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  United  States  District  Court,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


W.  H.  TINSON,  Stereotyper,  GKOKHK  RCSSKLL  &  Co.,  Printers. 

43  Centre  street.  61  Beekman  Street. 


/  /    I 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  ,  PAQK 

I.  The  First  Gift,   .  .  .  .  .  .          .  ...       9 

II.  The  Sibyl's  Cave, 20 

III.  Chaleco  and  his  Plunder,        ...•••.      28 

IV.  The  Midnight  Ramble, 87 

V.  Fairy  Scenes  and  Fatal  Passions,       ......      56 

VI.  The  Sibyl  and  the  Lovers,       .-         .  .  .  .  .  .59 

VII.  Waiting  for  Vengeance,  .......      66 

VIII.  The  Broken  Idol, 70 

IX.  Waiting  and  Fearing — A  Wilderness  of  Beauty,      .  .  .  .79 

X.  The  Courier  and  his  Wild  Visitor,       .  .  .  .  .88 

XI.  A  Traveller's  Toilet, 88 

XII.  Temptations  and  Resolutions,  ......      92 

XIII.  The  Weird  Wedding,    .  . 99 

XIV.  The  Gitanilla's  Oath,    ........    104 

XV.  The  Mansion  and  the  Cottage, 110 

XVI.  Concealments  and  Suspicions,  ......    115 

XVII.  The  Old  Escritoir, 124 

XVIII.  The  Lady  of  Marston  Court,    .  .  .  .  .  .  .130 

XIX.  My  First  Heart  Tempest, 189 

XX.  My  Mother's  Last  Appeal,        .......    143 

XXI.  The  Oath  Redeemed,    ........    151 

XXII.  Lost  Memories, 156 

XXIII.  The  Threshold  of  my  Father's  House, 162 

XXIV.  A  Paradise  of  Rest,       .  .  ^ 167 

XXV.  Myself  and  my  Shadow, 174 

XXVI.  The  Fairy  at  the  Pool,  ....  .  .  .  .181 

XXVII.  Funerals  and  Orphans,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .187 

MJL74952 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTBB  PAGK 

XXVIII.  Pleasant  Days  and  Pleasant  Teachings,    .  .  .  .  .194 

XXIX.  My  Strange  Acquaintance,  .  ....    206 

XXX.  The  Involuntary  Hunt  and  its  Consequences,       .  .  .  .207 

XXXI.  My  Unexpected  Escort, 216 

XXXII.  The  Unwelcome  Visitor, 224 

XXXIII.  Turner's  Struggle  against  Marriage, 230 

XXXIV.  The  Reluctant  Proposal, 286 

XXXV.  The  Jovial  Wedding  and  Random  Shot, 240 

XXXVI.  My  First  Visit  to  Greenhurst— The  Two  Miniatures,         .  .  .250 

XXXVII.  Sorrows,  Doubts  and  Conjectures,  .  .  .  .  .  .260 

XXX VIII..  The  Hazlenut  Hedge, .     270 

XXXIX.  My  Father's  Return, 276 

XL.  Once  More  at  Greenhurst,    .......    284 

XLI.  My  Strange  Visitor, 290 

XLII.  Visions  and  Retrospections,  .  .  .  .  .  .801 

XLIII.  The  Desolate  Bridal  Chambers, 810 

XLIV.  The  Bronze  Coffer  and  my  Mother's  Journal,        .  :•    .  .819 

XLV.  The  Shadowy  Death-Chamber, 880 

XLVI.  A  Visit  to  my  Arch-Enemy,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .839 

XLVII.  My  Lost  Friend  and  my  Lost  Home, 852 

XLVIII.  Our  Flight  from  Marston  Court,       .  .  .  .  .  .866 

XLIX.  The  Mountain  Lake  and  Hill-side  Cottage, .  .  .  .  .868 

L.  The  Antique  Bible,      ........    876 

LI.  The  Island  Cove, 882 

LII.  The  Sheep-Farmer  and  his  Wife, 891 

Lin.  Chaleco's  Triumph,     ........    897 

LIV.  Irving  and  his  Mother, 404 

LV.  Self-Abnegation, 411 

LVI.  The  Old  Tower  Chamber, 425 


DEDICATION. 


MY  MOTHER: 

In  dedicating  this  book  to  you,  I  have  no  choice  of  words  ;  the 
memories  of  a  helpless  and  feeble  childhood  crowd  too  closely  on  my 
heart  for  that.  From  the  day  when  you  received  me  an  infant  from  the 
arms  of  a  dying  sister,  down  to  the  calm  twilight  of  your  own  most  use 
ful  life,  I  have  a  remembrance  only  of  more  than  motherly  kindness  and 
entire  affection.  My  childhood  and  my  youth,  with  all  their  joys  and 
tender  griefs,  are  so  beautifully  blended  with  thoughts  of  your  household 
virtues  and  maternal  love,  that  it  is  impossible  to  realize  that  even  partial 
orphanage  was  ever  known  to  me. 

I  once  hoped  to  blend  with  yours  the  name  of  that  honored  father, 
who  has  but  lately  laid  down  the  burden  of  almost  fourscore  years  and 
ten,  and  gone  forth  from  the  faithful  affection  which  surrounded  him 
here,  to  the  more  perfect  love  of  heaven.  But  my  father  is  dead,  and 
in  the  holy  welcome  of  angels  the  voice  of  his  own  child  is  hushed. 
Still,  through  the  golden  chain  of  your  love,  my  mother,  this  dedication 
shall  yet  reach  him.  With  you — who  made  his  old  age  tranquil  almost 
as  the  heaven  he  approached,  who  went  faithfully  down  to  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death,  giving  him  up  only  to  the  angels  that  waited 
there — I  leave  this  homage,  that  it  may  be  conveyed  to  him  through 
your  nightly  prayers. 

ANN  S.   STEPHENS. 

NEW  YOKE,  May,  1857. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  GREENHURST, 


CHAPTER   I. 


THE     FIRST     GIFT. 

IT  is  my  mother's  story  that  I  am  about  to  write — the  story 
of  her  young  life,  her  wrongs,  her  sufferings,  and  the  effects  of 
those  wrongs,  those  sharp  sufferings  as  they  flowed  in  fire  and 
tears  through  my  own  existence.  Her  history  ran  like  a  des 
tiny  through  my  own.  My  life  is  but  a  prolongation  of  hers. 
I  have  but  done  what  she  would  have  accomplished,  had  she 
not  been  trampled  down  like  a  broken  flower,  in  the  civilized 
life  with  which  none  of  her  blood  or  race  could  hope  to  mingle 
and  live. , 

She  was  a  gipsy  of  Granada.  You  may  search  for  her  birth 
place  among  the  caves  that  perforate  the  hill-side  to  the  right, 
as  you  gaze  down  upon  Granada  from  the  Alhambra  That 
hill,  honeycombed  with  subterranean  dwellings,  and  its  bosom 
swarming  with  "human  beings,  was  my  mother's  home.  Beggars 
— yes,  call  them  so — a  people  born  to  delude  and  prey  upon  all 
other  races,  these  were  her  companions.  She  was  a  gipsy  of 
the  pure  blood,  not  a  drop,  not  a  taint  had  ever  mingled  with 
the  fiery  life  that  glowed  in  her  veins. 

Men  call  me  beautiful.  And  so  I  am.  But  compared  to  my 

!*  9 


}0  1   T  H  i\  FIRST     GIFT. 

mother,  as  I  remember  her,  that  which  I  possess  is  but  the  light 
of  a  star  as  it  pales  into  the  morning,  contrasted  with  the  same 
bright  jewel  of  the  sky,'  when  it  burns  pure  and  undimmed  in 
the  purple  of  the  evening.  I  have,  it  is  true,  eyes  like  hers, 
long,  black,  almond  shaped  ;  but  English  blood  has  thrown  a 
soft  mistiness  upon  their  lightning.  My  cheeks  have  a  rich 
bloom  ;  but  hers  were  of  a  deeper  and  more  peachy  crimson, 
glowing  oat  through  the  soft  creamy  tint  of  her  complexion 
with  a  warmth  that  shames  comparison.  See,  I  can  shake 
down  my  hair,  and  it  falls  over  me  like  a  mantle  rolling  in 
heavy  black  waves  far  below  my  waist ;  but  hers  swept  to  the 
ground.  I  have  seen  her  bury  her  tiny  foot  in  the  extremity 
of  those  raven  curls,  and  press  them  to  the  earth  while  she 
stood  upright,  without  straightening  a  single  tress.  As  for  her 
person,  you  could  liken  it  to  nothing  of  human  beauty.  An 
antelope — a  young  leopardess,  an  Arab  steed  of  the  pure  blood 
— these  were  the  comparisons  that  flashed  to  the  mind  as  you 
watched  the  movements  of  that  lithe  form — those  delicate  and 
slender  limbs.  Imagine,  if  you  can,  a  being  like  this,  wild  as  a 
bird — utterly  untamed,  her  veins  burning  with  that  lava  fire 
that  seems  caught  from  another  world,  her  every  movement  an 
inspiration.  Imagine  this  creature  at  fourteen  years  of  age 
roaming  beneath  the  old  trees  that  lie  at  the  foot  of  the 
Alhambra,  and  earning  a  scant  subsistence  with  her  castanets, 
and  her  native  dance,  from  the  few  foreigners  who  brave  the 
discomforts  of  Spanish  travel  to  visit  the  Alhambra. 

She  was  always  among  those  beautiful  old  trees,  haunting 
them  like  the  birds  for  shelter  and  subsistence.  Sometimes  you 
might  have  found  her  crouching  beneath  a  thicket  half  asleep, 
and  dreamily  listening  to  the  silvery  flow  of  a  hundred  concealed 
rivulets,  introduced  by  the  Moors  into  these  shady  walks. 
Sometimes  she  would  lie  for  hours  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
that  flows  through  the  outskirts  of  these  woods,  and  weave  gar 
lands  from  the  wild  blossoms  so  abundant  there,  crowning  her 
self  like  a  May  Queen,  and  using  the  waters  for  a  mirror,  the 
only  one  she  had  yet  seen.  But  in  all  this  seeming  idleness 


THE     FIRST     GIFT.  11 

she  was  ever  upon  the  alert,  listening  for  the  sound  of  wheels, 
peering  through  the  trees  for  a  view  of  any  chance  traveller 
that  might  ascend  to  the  ruins  on  foot ;  in  short,  feverish  with 
anxiety  to  earn  bread  for  her  old  grandmother,  who  waited 
hungrily  for  it  in  the  caves  that  yawned  upon  her  from  the 
opposite  hill. 

One  day,  when  my  mother  was  a  little  less  than  fourteen, 
full-grown  as  most  females  of  that  age  are  in  Spain,  yet  delicate 
and  slender  as  I  have  described,  she  had  come  to  the  Alhambra 
woods  with  two  or  three  gipsy  girls  of  her  tribe,  but  wandered 
away  alone  as  was  her  habit,  searching  for  wild  flowers  to  com 
pose  a  garland  for  her  hair.  Down  in  a  little  hollow  that  sinks 
abruptly  from  the  broad  avenue  leading  to  the  Alhambra,  she 
found  a  profusion  of  these  sweet  stars  of  the  wood,  and  began 
to  gather  them  in  handsful,  forming  a  drapery  from  her  scant 
calico  robe,  and  filling  it  with  the  fragrant  mass  in  pleasant 
wantonness,  for  she  had  collected  blossoms  enough  to  crown  half 
Granada. 

She  sat  down  on  the  ground,  and  selecting  the  most  dewy 
buds,  began  to  weave  them  into  a  wreath,  blending  the  tints 
with  a  degree  of  taste  that  would  have  been  pronounced  artistic 
in  civilized  life.  Red,  yellow,  purple  with  delicate  and  starry 
white  blossoms,  all  flashed  through  her  little  hands,  blending 
themselves,  as  it  were,  by  magic  into  this  rustic  crown.  Now 
and  then  she  paused  and  held  the  garland  up  admiringly  with  a 
smile  upon  her  lips,  and  her  graceful  head  turned  on  one  side, 
half  shyly,  like  a  bird's,  as  if  she  were  ashamed  of  admiring  her 
own  work. 

Her  castanets  lay  upon  the  grass,  and  stretching  one  little 
naked  foot,  plump  as  an  infant's,  down  to  the  rivulet  that 
flowed  by  her,  she  began  to  dip  it  up  and  down  in  the  spark 
ling  water,  carelessly  as  a  bird  laves  itself  in  the  morning. 
As  the  waters  rippled  over  that  little  foot,  breaking  up  in 
diamond*  drops  all  around,  she  continued  her  sweet  task,  lean 
ing  on  one  side,  or  bending  backward  now  and  then  to  gather 
some  green  sprig  or  fresh  bud  that  grew  within  reach. 


12  THE     FIRST     GIFT. 

My  poor,  poor  mother — how  little  could  she  guess  that  the 
moment  so  full  of  sweet  repose,  while  the  waters  sung  and 
whispered  to  her  as  they  passed,  while  the  blossoms  breathed 
balm  all  around,  gratifying  her  senses  and  her  delicate  taste 
at  the  same  moment — how  could  she  guess  that  moment  to 
be  one  of  destiny  to  her,  the  single  speck  of  time  on  which 
all  her  after  life  depended  I 

She  kept  on  with  her  pretty  garlands,  blending  with  uncon 
scious  taste,  a  little  delicate  green,  and  a  few  white  bells  with 
the  rich  clusters  of  crimson,  yellow,  and  blue  that  predominated 
there. 

When  it  was  finished,  she  withdrew  her  foot  from  the  water, 
that  it  might  not  disturb  the  pure  surface — watched  the  bub 
bles  with  a  smile  as  they  floated  downward,  and,  bending  over 
the  rivulet,  wreathed  her  garland  among  the  rich  folds  of  hair 
which  I  have  mentioned  as  so  glossy  and  abundant. 

A  knot  of  scarlet  ribbon — I  know  not  how  obtained,  but 
it  was  her  only  finery,  poor  thing — fastened  this  floral  crown  ; 
and  after  arranging  her  dress  of  many-colored  chintz,  she 
regarded  herself  in  the  water  for  an  instant  with  smiling 
admiration.  And  well  she  might,  for  the  image  thrown  back 
by  that  tranquil  pool  was  full  of  picturesque  beauty,  unlike 
anything  you  ever  dreamed  of  even  in  romance. 

A  slight  noise,  something  rustling  among  the  neighboring 
foliage,  made  her  start  from  that  graceful  half-stooping  posi 
tion.  She  looked  eagerly  around — and  there,  upon  the  upper 
swell  of  the  bank,  stood  a  young  man  looking  at  her. 

My  poor  mother  had  no  thought  but  of  the  coin  she  might 
earn.  A  cry  of  glad  surprise  broke  from  her  lips,  and  seizing- 
her  castanets  she  sprang  from  amid  the  litter  of  wild  flowers 
that  had  fallen  around  her  feet,  and  with  a  single  bound 
stood  before  the  stranger,  poising  herself  for  the  national 
dance. 

I  cannot  tell  what  it  was,  but  some  strange  magnetic 
influence  possessed  my  mother.  As  her  slender  limbs  were 
prepared  for  the  first  graceful  bound,  her  spirited  ankle 


THE     FIRST     GIFT.  13 

strained  back,  and  one  little  foot  just  ready  to  spurn  the  turf, 
a  wonderful  fascination  came  over  her.  She  stood  a  moment 
immovable,  frozen  into  that  graceful  attitude,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  stranger's,  her  red  lips  parted  in  a  half  smile,  checked 
and  still  as  her  limbs.  Then  the  eyelids,  with  their  long, 
thick  lashes,  began  to  quiver,  and  drooped  heavily  downward, 
veiling  the  fire  of  those  magnificent  eyes.  The  tension  slowly 
left  her  muscles,  and  with  the  castanets  hanging  loose  in  her 
hands,  she  drooped  languidly  toward  the  youth,  as  a  flower 
bends  on  its  stalks  when  the  sunshine  is  too  warm. 

He  addressed  her  in  English,  but,  though  she  did  not  under 
stand  his  words,  the  very  sound  of  his  voice  made  her  shiver 
from  head  to  foot.  He  spoke  again  and  smiled  pleasantly, 
not  as  men  smile  with  their  lips  alone,  but  with  a  sort  of  heart- 
bloom  spreading  all  over  the  face.  She  looked  up,  and  knew 
that  he  was  asking  her  to  dance  ;  but  she,  whose  muscles 
up  to  that  moment  had  answered  to  her  will,  as  harp-strings 
obey  the  master-touch,  found  all  her  power  gone.  She  could 
not  even  lift  her  eyes  to  meet  the  admiring  glance  bent  upon 
her,  but  shrunk  timidly,  awkwardly — if  a  creature  so  full  of 
native  grace  could  be  awkward — away,  and  burst  into  tears. 

That  instant  there  came  leaping  up  from  a  neighboring 
hollow,  the  half  dozen  gipsy  girls  that  my  mother  had  for 
saken  in  the  woods.  On  they  came  like  a  troop  of  young 
antelopes,  leaping,  singing,  rattling  their  castanets,  and  sur 
rounding  the  stranger  with  smiles,  gestures,  and  sounds  of 
eager  glee. 

He  looked  around,  surprised  and  smiling.  The  scene  took 
him  unawares.  His  heart  was  brimful  of  that  sweet  romance 
that  hovers  forever  like  a  spirit  about  the  place,  and  this 
picturesque  exhibition  startled  him  into  enthusiasm.  It  was 
like  enchantment.  The  wild  poetry  of  the  past  acted  before 
him.  His  dark  grey  eyes  grew  brilliant  with  excitement. 
He  smiled,  nay,  even  laughed  gaily,  scattering  silver  among 
the  troop  of  dark-browed  fairies  that  had  beset  his  way. 
There  was  something  eager  and  grasping  in  the  manner  of 


14  THEFIESTGIFT. 

these  girls  as  they  scrambled  for  the  money,  pushing  each 
other  aside  with  lightning  flashes  of  the  eye,  and  searching 
avariciously  among  the  grass  when  all  had  been  gathered  up. 

You  could  see  that  the  young  man  was  very  fastidious  from 
the  effect  this  had  upon  him.  A  look  of  disappointment, 
tinged  with  contempt,  swept  the  happy  expression  from  his 
face  ;  and  when  they  began  a  new  dance,  less  modest  than 
the  preceding,  he  motioned  them  to  desist.  But  they  were 
not  to  be  driven  away  ;  he  had  been  too  liberal  for  that. 
They  drew  back  a  little,  but  continued  to  dance,  some  moving 
around  him.  on  the  avenue,  others  choosing  the  turfy  bank. 
Still  he  beckoned  them  to  desist,  but  misunderstanding  his 
gestures,  they  became  subdued,  threw  a  more  voluptuous  spirit 
into  the  dance,  and  the  languor  that  tamed  down  each  move 
ment  seemed  a  portion  of  the  balmy  atmosphere,  so  subtle 
and  enervating  was  the  effect. 

But  the  stranger  was  no  ordinary  man.  The  very  efforts 
that  would  have  charmed  others,  created  a  singular  feeling  of 
repulsion  in  him.  He  turned  from  the  dancing  girls  with  a  look 
of  weariness,  and  would  have  moved  on  ;  but  disappointed  in 
the  result  of  the  last  effort,  they  sprang  into  his  path  like  so 
many  bacchantes,  making  the  soft  air  vibrate  with  the  rapidity 
and  force  of  their  movements.  Half  clothed — for  the  garments 
of  these  young  creatures  reached  but  little  below  the  knees, 
their  slender  limbs  and  small,  naked  feet  exposed  in  the  wild 
frenzy  of  their  exertions,  eager  as  wild  animals  who  have 
tasted  blood — they  beset  his  way  with  bolder  and  more  despe 
rate  attempts  to  charm  forth  a  new  supply  of  coin. 

In  the  midst  of  this  wild  scene,  the  young  man  chanced  to 
turn  his  eyes  upon  my  mother.  She  was  standing  apart,  not 
drooping  helplessly  as  at  first,  but  upright,  spirited,  with  a  curve 
of  invincible  scorn  upon  those  red  lips,  and  a  blush  glowing 
like  fire  over  every  visible  'part  of  her  person.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  seemed  to  be  aroused  to  the  character  of 
her  national  dance  :  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  young 
gipsy  had  learned  to  blush. 


THE     FIRST     GIFT.  15 

The  Englishman  was  struck  by  her  appearance,  and  made  an 
effort  to  draw  near,  Jaut  his  wild  tormentors  followed  close,  and, 
to  free  himself,  he  adroitly  flung  a  handful  of  small  coin  far  up 
the  avenue.  Away  sprang  the  whole  group,  shouting,  leaping, 
and  hustling  each  other  about,  as  they  cleared  the  distance 
between  themselves  and  the  Englishman. 

He  approached  my  mother  with  a  little  reluctance,  such  as  a 
man  feels  when  he  tries  a  new  language,  and  uttered  a  few 
words  in  Spanish. 

"  Why  do  you  remain  behind  ?  There  is  money  up  yonder," 
he  said. 

My  mother  looked  up.  The  tears  which  she  had  suppressed 
still  sparkled  on  her  curling  eyelashes. 

"  I  do  not  want  money,"  she  said  ;  "  I  have  done  nothing  to 
earn  it." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  dance  with  the  rest  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  seems  to  me  now  that  I  never  have 
danced  like  them,  and  yet,  I  tried  to  begin  that  very  dance — 
tried  and  could  not." 

The  blush  again  burned  on  her  face.  She  made  a  movement 
as  if  to  cover  it  with  her  hands,  and  desisted,  ashamed  of  her 
new-born  modesty. 

"  And  why  could  you  not  dance  for  me  as  you  have  for 
others  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  You  have  already  earned  money  enough  ?" 

"  I  have  an  old  grandmother  who  has  not  tasted  food  to-day. 
She  is  waiting  in  patient  hunger  till  I  shall  bring  money  from 
the  woods  to  purchase  it.  My  companions  will  carry  food  to 
their  parents — mine  must  wait." 

"  See,  I  have  driven  these  people  away.  They  did  not  please 
me,  but  you  shall  give  me  a  dance  while  they  are  busy.  Here 
is  a  piece  of  good  English  gold,  which  will  supply  your  gran- 
dame  with  food  during  the  next  fortnight." 

My  mother  took  the  gold  and  examined  it  with  great  curi 
osity.  She  had  never  seen  so  much  money  at  once  in  her  life. 


16  THE     FIRST     GIFT. 

"  I — I  am  to  dance  before  you,  and  this  will  be  mine  ?"  she 
said,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  yours  I" 

She  handed  him  back  the  money,  took  up  her  castanets,  and 
stepped  forth  with  a  sort  of  haughty  grace.  Giving  her  person 
a  willowy  bend  sideways,  she  began,  the  tears  starting  afresh 
to  her  eyes  as  she  made  the  effort.  But  the  elasticity  seemed  to 
have  forsaken  her  limbs  :  she  stopped  abruptly  and  retreated. 

"I  will  not  go  on,"  she  said  ;  "I  don't  want  the  piece  of 
gold  ;  I  only  know  the  dances  that  made  you  drive  my  com 
panions  away." 

There  was  no  acting  in  this.  My  poor  mother  literally 
could  not  perform  her  task,  and  it  was  this  very  failure  that 
charmed  the  young  Englishman.  Had  she  earned  the  money 
it  would  have  been  given,  and  she  possibly  remembered  no 
more  ;  as  it  was — ah,  would  to  heaven  she  had  earned  it — 
earned  it  and  gone  on  her  way  true  to  her  people — true  to  the 
blood  that  never  mingles  with  that  of  another  race  without 
blending  a  curse  with  it. 

But  there  was  something  in  my  mother's  refusal  that  inter 
ested  the  Englishman.  He  was  very  young,  only  in"  his  twenty- 
fourth  year,  but  of  mature  intellect  and  strong  of  mind.  Still 
the  fresh  and  romantic  delicacy  of  youth  clung  to  his  feelings. 
They  were  both  fresh  and  powerful.  The  ideal  blended  with 
all  things.  He  could  never  have  been  a  slave  to  the  mere 
senses,  but  sensation  excited,  his  poetical  nature  nmde  even 
that  exquisite.  He  was  not  a  man  to  indulge  in  light  fancies, 
but  his  imagination  and  his  feelings  were  both  strong,  and  in 
these  lay  the  danger. 

Love  is  the  religion  of  a  woman  educated  as  my  mother  had 
been.  In  her  it  seemed  like  apostasy  from  the  true  faith  to 
allow  her  heart  a  moment's  resting-place  out  of  her  own  race. 
Indeed,  she  deemed  it  an  impossibility,  and  thus  secure,  was 
all  unconscious  of  the  fatal  passion  that  had  transformed  her 
very  nature  in  a  single  morning. 

Not  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  my  mother  had  met 


THE     FIBBT     GIFT.  17 

the  stranger.  The  dew  that  trembled  on  her  coronal  of  wild 
blossoms  still  glittered  there  ;  the  first  footprint  she  had  made 
upon  the  grass  that  morning  still  kept  its  place.  Yet  how 
much  time  it  has  required  for  me  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the 
feelings  that  grew  into  strength  in  that  brief  time — feelings 
that  vibrated  through  more  than  one  generation,  that  made 
me  what  I  am  ;  for  this  man  was  my  father. 

Be  patient,  and  I  will  tell  you  more  ;  for  there  lies  a  long 
history  between  that  time  and  this,  the  history  of  many 
persons  ;  for  did  I  not  say  that  my  life  was  but  a  continuation 
of  hers  ?  And  I  have  known  much,  felt  much,  suffered.  But 
who  that  has  known  and  felt,  can  say  that  he  has  not  suffered  ? 

"  Nay,  you  have  fairly  earned  the  gold,"  said  the  English 
man,  bending  his  now  bright  and  earnest  eyes  on  my  mother, 
with  an  expression  that  made  every  nerve  in  her  body  thrill, 
as  if  it  had  been  touched  to  music  for  the  first  tune — "  take 
it  for  your  grandam's  sake,  my  poor  child  I" 

What  charm  possessed  my  mother?  She  who  had  been 
among  the  most  eager  when  money  was  to  be  obtained — 
why  did  she  shrink  and  blush  at  taking  the  gold  from  that 
generous  palm  ?  Why,  when  she  happened  to  touch  his  hand 
in  receiving  it,  did  the  warm  blood  leap  to  each  finger's  end, 
till  the  delicately  curved  nails  seemed  red  with  some  artificial 
dye?  The  gold  gave  her  no  pleasure  at  first.  It  seemed  a 
sacrilege  to  receive  it  from  him  ;  but  after  a  little  it  grew 
precious  as  her  own  life.  Her  grandmother  went  hungry  to 
bed  that  night,  for  the  gipsy  girl  would  not  part  with  this 
one  piece  of  gold.  She  did  not  even  acknowledge  to  any 
one  that  it  had  been  given  her,  but  hid  it  away  close  to 
her  heart,  and  kept  it  there  through  many  a  sharp  struggle 
that  broke  that  poor  heart  at  last.  I  have  it  in  my  bosom. 
It  was  necessary  at  times  that  I  should  feel  it  grating  cold 
and  hard,  or  something  of  tenderness  would  have  crept  there. 
I  could  not  have  gone  through  with  all  that  I  had  to  accomplish 
but  for  this  gold — gold,  gold.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  harden  the 
heart  with  ;  in  many  ways  men  have  found  it  so. 


18  THE     FIK8T     GIFT. 

My  mother  took  the  money,  then,  with  a  faint  blush  and 
a  smile  that  lighted  up  his  face  into  absolute  beauty,  the  young 
man  said, 

"I  see  you  hesitate  ;  you  will  not  believe  the  money  is  fairly 
earned.  Now  to  set  you  at  rest  I  will  take  the  wreath  you 
wear  as  full  compensation.  It  will  remind  me  hereafter  of  my 
first  day  at  the  Alhambra." 

My  mother  smiled,  and  her  face  kindled  up  with  the  pleasure 
his  request  had  given.  She  unbound  the  wreath  and  presented 
it  to  him,  ribbon  and  all. 

That  ribbon  was  the  only  ornament  that  she  had  in  the 
world,  but  she  parted  with  it  joyfully  ;  though  the  diamonds 
that  Queen  Isabella  sacrificed  to  Christopher  Columbus  were 
not  half  so  precious  to  their  owner  as  this  scarlet  snood  had 
been  to  the  gipsy  girl. 

I  have  the  ribbon  too.  That  piece  of  gold  is  suspended 
to  it  about  my  neck — the  first  gift  of  my  mother — the  first 
gift  of  my  father.  He  wore  the  ribbon  around  his  neck  at 
the  death-hour.  The  gold  also  ;  alas  !  it  was  an  awful  hour 
when  that  piece  of  gold  was  laid  in  my  palm. 

The  Englishman  lingered  for  weeks  at  the  Alhambra.  He 
lived  at  a  little  Fonda  that  stands  close  beneath  the  ruins, 
sometimes  spending  whole  days  among  the  old  Moorish  remains, 
at  others  wandering  thoughtfully  beneath  the  stately  trees. 

My  mother  had  spent  her  life  in  those  woods.  She  could 
not  change  her  habits  now,  for  the  love  of  those  cool  shadows 
had  become  a  want  of  her  whole  being  ;  but  she  danced  the 
gipsy  dances  and  sung  the  gipsy  songs  no  more.  Her  com 
panions  wondered  greatly  at  this,  and  triumphed  over  her 
with  a  wild  glee  that  would  have  roused  her  indignation  a 
few  weeks  before.  Now,  she  turned  from  them  with  a  quiet 
curve  of  scorn  upon  her  lip,  and  stole  away  by  herself,  weav 
ing  garlands,  and  listening  to  the  hidden  waters  that  chimed 
their  sweet  voices  in  the  solitude,  whispering  a  thousand 
dreamy  fancies,  which  deepened  almost  into  sadness  as  time 
wore  on. 


THE     FIK8T     GIFT.  19 

1  know  not  how  often  she  saw  the  Englishman  during  that 
period.  Not  very  frequently,  I  am  sure  ;  for  she  had  become 
timid  as  a  fawn,  and  would  sit  crouching  among  the  thickets 
for  hours,  only  to  see  him  pass  distantly  through  the  dim  veil 
of  the  forest  leaves. 

Night  after  night  she  went  home  from  the  woods  empty- 
handed,  and  musing  as  if  in  a  dream.  Her  grandame  chided 
her  sharply  at  times,  for  hunger  made  her  stern.  The  gipsy 
girl  bore  this  with  surprising  meekness,  weeping  gently,  but 
never  urging  a  word  in  her  own  defence,  save  that  she  did 
not  know  why,  but  it  was  impossible  to  dance  as  she  had  done  ; 
the  strength  left  her  limbs  whenever  she  attempted  it. 

A  week — more  than  one — went  by,  and  the  gipsy  girl  re 
mained  in  this  inactive,  dreamy  state.  Then  a  sudden  change 
came  over  her.  She  grew  animated,  the  wild  passions  of 
her  nature  kindled  up  again.  You  could  see  that  her  heart 
slept  no  longer.  The  dove  that  had  brooded  there  so  sweetly 
had  taken  wing.  She  went  to  the  Alhambra  early.  She  left 
it  sometimes  after  dark,  often  bringing  a  little  money  which 
she  gave  the  old  woman  with  trembling  hands  and  downcast 
eyes,  that  were  frequently  full  of  tears. 

At  this  season  you  could  not  have  looked  upon  her  face 
without  admiration.  The  bloom  upon  the  sunniest  peach  suf 
fered  in  comparison  with  the  rich  hues  of  her  cheek.  Her  eyes 
were  starry  in  their  brightness.  You  could  not  speak  to  her 
without  bringing  a  smile  to  her  mouth,  that  brightened  it  as 
the  sunshine  glows'  upon  ripe  strawberries.  If  tears  sometimes 
started  beneath  these  thick  lashes,  they  only  served  to  light  up 
the  eyes  they  could  not  dim,  for  every  bright  drop  seemed  to 
leap  from  a  blissful  source. 

She  was  quiet  though,  and  said  little.  You  only  knew  how 
exquisite  was  her  happiness  by  the  glorious  beauty  of  her 
face. 

Then,  all  this  exquisite  joy  went  gradually  out,  as  you 'see 
a  lamp  fade  when  the  perfume  oil  burns  low.  She  wept  no 
more  blissful  tears.  Her  smile  grew  constrained,  and  took  a 


20  THE    SIBYL'S    CAVE. 

marble  paleness.  It  was  singular  that  no  one  observed  this  ; 
that  the  keen-eyed  people  of  her  tribe  never  suspected  what 
was  going  on  in  that  young  heart — but  so  it  was. 

One  person  of  the  tribe  would  not  have  been  thus  blinded  ; 
for  he  loved  the  gipsy  girl  as  only  the  wild,  strong  nature  of 
the  pure  blood  can  love  ;  but  he  had  gone  to  attend  the  annual 
fair  at  Seville,  and  my  mother  was  left  to  the  tempter  and 
her  own  heart.  Much  that  passed  during  this  time  remains 
a  mystery  even  to  me,  her  child,  for  in  the  manuscript  that 
she  left,  there  is  hesitation,  embarrassment — many  erasures 
and  whole  sentences  blotted  out,  as  if  no  language  could  satisfy 
her — or,  as  if  there  existed  much  that  she  could  not  force 
herself  to  write.  Still,  she  seemed  to  linger  about  this  period 
as  if  afraid  to  go  on.  It  was  her  first  love-dream  ;  how  could 
she  describe  it  ?  Her  first  step  in  the  crooked  way  which 
no  human  being  can  possibly  make  straight.  How  could  she 
describe  that  to  her  own  child  ?  Still,  much  was  written,  much 
revealed,  that  I  shall  put  into  form.  For  my  mother  was  a 
child  of  the  Alhambra,  and  there  her  destiny  commenced  shap 
ing  itself  into  a  fate. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   SIBYL'S   CAVE. 


I  have  spoken  of  the  grandame  who  was  my  mother's  only 
relative.  I  have  a  sort  of  fierce  pride  in  this  old  woman,  and 
love  to  trace  the  Rommany  blood  that  burns  in  my  own  heart, 
back  to  that  weird  source  ;  for  in  her  withered  veins  it  grew, 
like  old  wine,  strong  with  age  and  bitter  with  the  hate  which 
our  people  bore  to  the  Gentiles. 

Learned  men  still  cavil  about  our  origin.  They  gather  up 
scraps  of  our  language,  they  ferret  out  our  habits,  sand  torture 


THE    SIBYL'S    CAVE.  21 

our  tradition  to  establish  the  various  theories,  which,  after  all, 
must  remain  theories  ;  for  ours  is  a  poverty-stricken  people. 
We  have  no  possession,  not  even  a  history.  They  call  us  a 
a  nation  of  thieves,  and  say  that  even  our  traditions  are  stolen. 
Be  it  so  1  at  least  we  are  faithful  to  each  other,  a  boast  which 
the  brotherhood  of  civilization  cannot  honestly  make. 

But  though  wise  men  have  traced  us  back  to  Judea,  and 
made  us  worshippers  of  idols,  we  who  worship  nothing  in 
heaven  or  on  earth,  know  by  the  secret  sympathies  that  link  us 
together — sympathies  which  no  Gentile  can  comprehend — that 
the  blood  within  our  hearts  is  of  another  source  than  vthe  idola 
ters  of  Judea. 

They  say  that  our  traditions  are  stolen  from  your  Bible  ; 
that  from  the  solemn  prophecies  written  there,  we  have  gathered 
up  a  belief  in  our  Egyptian  origin.  But  my  great  grandmother 
never  looked  into  your  Bible.  She  would  have  trampled  the 
falsehood  under  her  feet  and  spit  upon  it,  had  any  one  hinted 
that  in  the  Gentile  language,  lay  the  great  secret  of  her  race. 

But  her  faith  in  the  Egyptian  descent  of  our  people  was  like 
a  religion.  How  it  came  to  her,  whether  from  tradition,  fable, 
fact,  or  those  sorcerers'  arts  that  made  her  famous  among  all 
our  nation,  I  do  not  know.  Save  in  those  wild  sympathies  that 
knit  our  tribe  together,  as  with  bonds  of  iron,  all  over  the 
earth,  our  people  have  no  history.  They  came  like  a  cloud  of 
locusts  sweeping  down  from  the  East.  It  may  be  one  of  the 
curses  sent  forth  to  infest  the  earth  after  ravaging  Egypt.  It 
may  be  a  fragment  of  the  lost  tribes.  It  may  be  even,  as  some 
of  our  traditions  say,  that  we  were  sent  forth  as  a  punishment 
for  inhospitality  to  the  mother  of  God  and  her  holy  child. 
There  is  a  wide  field  for  conjecture.  Let  your  wise  men  guess 
on.  With  us,  our  Egyptian  descent  is  a  faith — all  the  religion 
that  we  have  1 

I  know  many  languages,  am  learned  in  historic  lore — learned 
in  the  great  foundation  of  all  history,  the  Bible.  Of  that  which 
pertains  to  my  people  I  have  studied  long  and  deeply  ;  yet  as 
my  great  grandmother,  the  Gitana,  believed,  so  do  I.  To  her 


22  THE 

occult  wisdom,  her  subtle  sympathies,  I  have  brought  all  the 
knowledge  to  be  gathered  from  the  literature  of  other  races. 

I  have  searched  your  sacred  book  till  my  soul  has  beeu 
stirred  to  its  depths  with  the  dark  prophecies  that  foreshadow 
the  scattering  of  our  tribes  over  the  face  of  the  earth.  I  find 
the  destiny  that  is  now  upon  us  written  out  in  that  great  book, 
certain,  unmistakable  as  the  thunder-cloud  that  heralds  in  a 
tempest.  There  is  wisdom  in  that  book.  Our  people  should 
know  it  better,  for  much  of  its  grandeur  came  from  Egypt,  as 
we  did — Egypt  the  great  mother  of  learning — the  land  which 
gave  its  wisdom  to  Moses,  and  taught  the  irresolute  how  to 
think,  act,  and  suffer. 

And  we  too  are  of  Egypt.  Does  the  Gentile  want  proof  ? 
Let  him  search  for  it  in  the  prophecies  that  he  holds  sacred. 
Let  him  read  it  in  the  voluptuous  character  of  our  dances,  in 
the  unwritten  poetry,  unwritten  because  it  grows  tame  and 
mean  in  any  language  but  the  Rommany.  The  Gitanos  speak 
their  poetry  as  it  swells  warm  from  the  heart,  for  it  would 
grow  cold  in  the  writing.  Let  him  search  for  it  where  he  pleases. 
We  require  no  proof,  better  than  the  mysterious  spirit  within 
us.  Our  hearts  turn  back  to  the  old  land,  and  we  know  that  it 
once  belonged  to  us. 

My  great  grandame  was  no  common  Gitana.  Her  hus 
band  had  been  a  chief,  or  count,  among  the  gipsies,  during  his 
entire  manhood.  This  was  no  common  dignity,  for  our  people 
choose  their  own  leaders,  and  it  is  seldom  that  one  man's  popu 
larity  lasts  during  a  life-time.  The  Gitano  chooses  his  wife  for 
her  talent,  her  art,  her  powers  of  deception  j  in  short,  for  what 
you  would  call  her  keen  wickedness.  These  are  the  endow 
ments  that  recommend  the  Gitana  bride  to  her  lord.  It  was 
for  these  qualities,  joined  to  talents  that  would  have  given  her 
a  position  in  any  nation,  that  my  ancestor  married  his  wife. 

This  great  grandame  of  mine  was  bravely  descended,  and 
richly  endowed.  Talent  descends  most  frequently  from  the 
mother,  and  through  the  female  line  she  could  trace  her  blood 
back  to  that  arch  sorceress,  who  wound  herself  around  Maria 


THE    SIBYL'S    CAVE.  23 

de  Padilla,  during  her  heroic  life,  and  in  the  end  betrayed  that 
noble  woman  to  death,  when  she  fled  from  Toledo  with  her  son. 

Maria  de  Padilla  had  offended  our  ancestress,  and  she  was 
true  to  her  hate.  My  great  grand-dame  wore  a  pair  of  ear 
rings,  massive  gold  circlets  set  with  great  rubies.  In  her 
poverty — for  in  the  end  she  became  very  poor — these  antique 
ornaments  were  always  about  her  person.  No  amount  of  suf 
fering,  no  temptation  could  win  them  from  her,  even  for  a 
moment.  These  antique  rings  had  been  wrested  from  the 
heroine  of  Toledo,  on  the  night  when  she  disappeared  with  her 
Critana  attendant.  There  was  a  tradition,  that  the  precious 
stones  with  which  they  were  beset,  had  once  been  white,  but 
that  after  the  murder,  had  changed  to  the  blood-red  hue  which 
they  ever  after  maintained.  I  know  not  how  this  superstition 
took  birth  ;  but  the  craft  of  our  Gitana  ancestress  seemed  to 
descend  with  the  rings,  as  they  came  down  from  that  wonder 
ful  creature,  always  through  the  females,  to  the  old  Sibyl  who 
was  the  grandame  of  my  mother. 

I  know  that  the  Gitanos  are  considered  as  impostors  ;  that 
they  are  supposed  to  practise  their  arts  for  coarse  gain,  and 
for  that  only  ;  but  this  is  not  always  true.  No  devotee  ever 
put  more  faith  in  her  saint  than  the  gipsy,  who  has  long  exer 
cised  her  powers  of  divination,  places  in  the  truth  of  her  myste 
rious  art. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  old  Papita — for  thus  my 
ancestress  was  named — sat  in  her  cave-home  waiting  the  return 
of  her  grand-daughter  from  the  Alhambra.  Perhaps  upon  the 
whole  earth  there  is  nothing  more  repulsive  than  a  very  old 
woman  in  any  portion  of  southern  Europe.  The  voluptuous 
atmosphere,  the  warm  sunshine  that  matures  female  life  so 
early,  seems  to  mock  its  own  precocious  work,  by  proving  how 
hideous  time  can  render  it.  But  if  age  makes  itself  so  repul 
sive  among  the  luxurious  women  of  Spain,  those  who  scarcely 
dra,w  a  breath  of  %that  delicious  atmosphere  which  is  not  heavy 
with  fragrance,  how  much  more  hideous  must  be  the  old  age  of 


24  THE    SIBYL'S    CAVE. 

a  Gitana  hid  away  in  the  dark  hollows  of  the  earth,  with  rude 
and  insufficient  food,  clothed  in  rags,  uncared  for,  held  in  no 
higher  repute  than  the  foxes  who  burrow  in  the  earth  like 
themselves,  and  are  scarcely  held  apart  from  civilization  more 
than  they  are  ? 

There  was  something  witch-like  in  the  appearance  of  my 
great  grandame  as  she  sat  alone  in  her  cave  that  night.  A 
meagre  candle  shed  its  light  in  sickly  flickers  around  a  rude 
niche  scooped  in  the  rock,  from  whence  the  entire  dwelling  was 
cut.  The  body  of  this  light  fell  upon  the  old  woman's  head, 
kindling  up  a  scarlet  kerchief  that  she  wore,  somewhat  in  the., 
fashion  of  a  Moorish  turban,  into  vivid  brilliancy  ;  but  casting 
the  rough  features  into  blacker  shadow,  till  they  seemed  meagre, 
dark,  and  almost  as  withered  as  those  of  an  Egyptian  mummy. 
Her  claw-like  hands  were  folded  over  her  bosom,  and  a  ring 
set  with  some  deep  green  stone  cut  with  Egyptian  characters, 
caught  the  light  like  a  star  ;  for  the  setting  was  of  rough  mas 
sive  gold,  that  seemed  heavy  enough  to  break  the  withered 
finger,  that  it  covered  from  joint  to  joint.  A  few  embers  lay 
upon  the  stone  floor  at  her  feet,  the  remnants  of  a  fire  that  had 
burned  low,  leaving  a  thin  cloud  of  smoke  still  floating  in  the 
vaulted  roof  of  the  cave. 

A  low  chair  of  heavy  carved  wood,  the  antique  plunder  of 
some  religious  house,  served  the  old  woman  for  a  seat ;  and 
before  her,  upon  the  embers,  stood  a  small  bronze  vessel,  which 
gave  forth  a  soft  odor  as  its  contents  simmered  sleepily  in  the 
dying  heat. 

Besides  these  objects,  there  was  little  of  interest  in  the 
dwelling.  The  cave  was  scooped  from  the  soft  sandstone  cliff 
that  forms  one  side  of  a  ravine,  through  which  the  Darro 
passes  before  making  its  graceful  sweep  around  the  Alhambra. 
The  walls  and  ceiling  were  blended  together  in  a  thousand 
irregular  curves  and  angles,  roughly  chiselled,  and  blackened 
over  with  smoke.  It  had  no  particular  form  ;  but  sunk  into 
recesses  ;  was  cut  up  into  hollows  ;  bulged  out  in  places  that 


THE    SIBYL'S    CAVE.  25 

should  have  been  corners,  and  had  a  dozen  angles  that  pro 
mised  some  definite  form,  but  failed  in  the  performance. 

In  size  it  might  have  covered  eighteen  or  twenty  square  feet. 
The  floors  were  of  stone,  like  the  walls,  for  all  was  cut  from  one 
rock  ;  but  smoke  and  long  use  had  so  disguised  the  native 
material,  that  it  could  hardly  be  guessed  at.  A  few  dried 
herbs  were  hung  in  one  hollow  of  the  wall  ;  an  earthen  pot, 
full  of  fresh  flowers,  stood  in  another  ;  some  specimens  of  coarse 
pottery  occupied  a  shelf  opposite  the  door,  and  cooking  utensils 
of  heavy  iron  were  huddled  in  a  corner,  making  the  shadows  in 
that  portion  of  the  cave  still  more  dense. 

The  old  Sibyl  arose,  took  down  the  candle,  and  holding  it 
over  the  bronze  vessel  peered  into  it,  muttering  to  herself. 
Now  the  dark  mummy-like  aspect  of  her  features  changed  ;  the 
eyes,  black,  firm  and  large,  for  age  had  no  power  to  quench 
their  lightning,  illuminated  those  withered  features  and  gave 
expression  to  every  wrinkle.  Her  thin  lips  parted,  and  through 
a  weird  smile,  that  made  them  writhe  like  disturbed  serpents, 
shot  the  gleam  of  her  sharp,  long  teeth,  white  as  ivory,  and 
strong  as  those  of  a  tiger. 

My  great  grandame  in  her  youth  was  of  middle  size  ;  but 
age  had  contracted  her  muscles  and  warped  her  sinews,  leaving 
her  limbs  spare  and  lean  till  she  was  scarcely  larger  than  a 
child  of  twelve  years.  Her  head  was  singularly  large,  the 
forehead  heavy,  the  eyes  under  it  burning  like  coals  of  living 
fire  ;  and  this  disproportion  was  exaggerated  by  the  heavy  red 
kerchief  that  I  have  already  spoken  of. 

As  the  old  woman  lifted  her  person  from  its  stooping  posi 
tion  and  rose  upright,  you  wondered  that  she  had  power  in 
those  withered  limbs  to  stand  so  erect,  or  carry  the  weight  of 
that  heavy  blue  saya,  with  its  succession  of  crimson  flounces  all 
edged  with  golden  lace,  from  which  the  brightness  had  departed 
years  ago.  You  wondered,  too,  at  the  picturesque  and  singular 
arrangement  of  colors  in  her  dress.  It  is  true  the  old  velvet 
jacket  had  lost  all  traces  of  its  original  lustre.  The  colors  of 
the  saya  were  dimmed  and  worn  away  ;  but  the  vestige  of 


26  >r  H  E    SIBYL'S    CAVE. 

former  dignity  was  there,  and  no  age  could  injure  that  mystic 
seal,  or  the  massive  ruby  rings  that  bent  her  thin  ears  with 
their  weight,  and  flashed  like  great  drops  of  blood  falling  from 
beneath  her  kerchief.  . 

Two  or  three  times  the  grandame  waved  her  light  over  the 
bronze  vessel,  then  thrusting  the  candle  back  into  its  niche, 
with  an  air  of  discontent  she  walked  to  the  door  of  her  cave, 
flung  it  open  and  looked  out. 

At  first  she  held  one  hand  over  her  eyes  as  we  do  when  the 
sun  strikes  us  suddenly,  and  no  wonder,  for  what  a  contrast 
was  that  beautiful  night  with  the  black  hole  she  had  left  ! 

I  have  seen  the  Alliambra  by  moonlight,  from  the  very  point 
of  view  which  the  old  Sibyl  commanded,  and  it  is  one  of  the 
memories  which  one  would  give  up  years  of  life  rather  than 
surrender.  Down  from  the  soft  purple  of  that  glorious  sky  fell 
the  moonlight,  pouring  its  rich  luminous  floods  over  the  snows 
that  lie  forever  upon  the  noble  mountain  ranges  of  the  Alpuj ar 
ras.  It  cast  a  silvery  halo  around  each  snowy  peak,  making 
the  whiteness  lustrous  as  noonday,  then  came  quivering  down 
their  sides,  and  fell  in  a  silvery  torrent  among  the  groves  that 
girdle  the  Alliambra.  There,  subdued  and  softened  by  the 
masses  of  foliage,  it  divided  a  sweet  empire  with  the  night, 
leaving  half  those  dim  old  towers  to  the  shadows,  and  pouring 
its  whole  refulgence  upon  the  rest,  throwing  a  glory  over  some 
broken  arch,  and  abandoning  its  neighbor  to  obscurity. 

Ah  me,  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  beautiful  as  the  moon 
light  shining  amid  a  grim  old  ruin  like  that.  It  is  the  present 
smiling  away  the  gloom  of  the  past. 

Broken  up,  as  it  were,  by  those  naked  old  towers,  the  light 
fell  among  the  groves,  throwing  the  trees  out  in  masses  that 
took  a  greenish  hue  almost  as  if  it  had  been  day  ;  then  the 
foliage  became  dense,  and  long  shadows  cast  themselves  like  a 
dewy  vapor  down  the  hill,  admitting  soft  gleams  to  flicker  in 
here  and  there,  like  a  network  of  pearls  embroidering  the  dark 
ness.  Then,  as  if  some  under-current  of  light  had  been  all  the 
while  flowing  on  beneath  the  trees,  out  rushed  the  moonbeams 


THE    SIBYL'S    CAVE.  27 

breaking  away  from  the  shadpws,  and  pouring  down  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  Darro,  smiling,  sparkling,  kindling  up  every  drop 
of  water  as  it  flowed  by,  till  you  would  have  thought  some  hid 
den  vein  in  the  mountains  had  broken  free,  and  a  torrent  of 
diamonds  were  sweeping  between  Granada  and  its  Moorish 
fortress. 

It  is  possible  that  the  old  gipsy  saw  nothing  of  this.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  she  did  not,  for  the  scene  had  become 
familiar  to  her,  and  that  night  she  was  ill  at  ease.  Instead  of 
turning  her  gaze  as  you  would  have  done  upon  the  Alhambra 
and  the  snow  ridges  beyond,  she  threw  her  head  back,  and 
began  peering  among  the  stars,  muttering  to  herself  in  some 
strange  tongue,  and  holding  up  her  mystic  ring  as  if  to  catch 
direct  fire  from  the  particular  star  to  which  her  eyes  were 
uplifted. 

"Not  now,"  she  said  fiercely  ;  for  the  least  untoward  thing 
awoke  the  old  woman's  wrath  ;  and  even  then  she  longed  to 
gather  all  that  beautiful  moonlight  up,  and  cast  it  into  some 
dark  void,  because  its  refulgence  dimmed  the  stars  which  she 
wished  to  read.  "Not  now,"  she  muttered,  locking  her  sharp 
teeth  together,  and  turning  her  fierce  eyes  upon  the  sky  with 
a  gleam  of  hate — "  not  while  the  moon  is  wading  through  the 
snows  up  yonder,  and  putting  out  the  bright,  beautiful  stars  till 
the  heavens  all  run  together  like  the  printed  pages  of  a  book 
which  one  has  not  the  art  to  read.  Not  yet,  not  yet.  I  must 
wait  till  the  skies  are  purple  again,  and  the  stars  come  out 
with  fire  in  them.  The  moon,  the  moon,  it  is  the  friend  of  the 
Busne,  never  of  the  Gitana.  Accursed  be  its  path  in  the  sky. 
May  the  stars,  that  have  a  language  for  the  Egyptian,  grow 
powerful,  and  smite  it  down  from  its  high  place." 

After  uttering  this  weird  curse,  the  Sibyl  closed  the  door 
and  slunk  back  into  her  cave,  pacing  to  and  fro,  and  crooning 
over  a  wild  snatch  of  song  that  seemed  to  excite  rather  than 
soothe  the  fierce  mood  she  was  in. 


28  CHALECO     AND     HIS     PLUNDER. 


CHAPTER   III. 

CHAfECO  AND  HIS  PLUNDER. 

ALL  at  once  the  old  woman  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hiss, 
and  bent  her  eyes  on  the  door.  She  heard  a  footstep  approach. 
The  wooden  lock  moved,  and  a  man  perhaps  of  twenty-three  or 
four  years  old  presented  himself. 

It  was  many  years  since  the  old  Sibyl  had  been  known  to 
change  countenance,  or  the  unpleasant  surprise  that  seized  her 
at  the  sight  of  this  man  must  have  been  visible.  Yet  of  all 
his  tribe  he  might  have  been  deemed  a  welcome  guest  in  any 
cave  in  the  settlement,  for  he  was  a  count  or  chief  among  the 
gipsies  of  Granada,  and  added  to  this,  was  the  betrothed  hus 
band  of  Aurora,  the  grandchild  of  Papita. 

Why  then  should  the  old  woman  shrink  within  herself 
and  receive  Chaleco,  the  chief  of  her  tribe,  with  so  much 
inward  trepidation  ?  I  only  know  that,  dazzled  as  her  eyes 
had  been  by  the  moonlight,  she  had  read  enough  in  the  stars  to 
make  her  afraid  of  meeting  Chaleco. 

The  young  count  had  all  those  strongly  marked  characteris 
tics  that  distinguish  his  race  :  a  clear  olive  complexion  ;  heavy 
voluptuous  lips,  revealing  teeth  that  shamed  the  whitest  ivory  ; 
hair  black  and  coarse,  but,  in  his  case,  with  a  purple  lustre 
upon  it ;  eyes  of  vivid  blackness,  and  cheek  bones  slightly;  in 
him,  very  slightly  prominent,  all  lighted  up  by  an  expression  of 
great  strength,  sharpness,  cunning  and-  perseverance — that  is, 
these  passions  must  have  been  visible  in  his  countenance  had  he 
ever  allowed  one  true  feeling  to  speak  in  his  face.  His  dress 
alone  would  have  bespoken  his  position  in  the  tribe  to  one 
accustomed  to  the  habits  of  our  people,  still  it  did  not  entirely 
appertain  to  the  portion  of  the  country  to  which  he  belonged. 


CHALECO     AND     HIS      PLUNDER.  29 

Chaleco  had  travelled  mtich  in  Catalonia,  and  having  a  rich 
fancy  in  costume,  adopted  many  of  their  picturesque  habits  of 
dress.  Onnthis  evening,  he  seemed  to  have  arrayed  himself 
with  peculiar  care,  which  is  easily  accounted  for  when  we 
remember  that  he  had  been  more  than  six  weeks  absent  from 
Granada,  and  in  that  time  had  not  seen  his  betrothed. 

With  the  deep  cunning  of  her  race,  blended  perhaps  with 
a  little  of  the  irritation  that  had  preceded  his  coming,  Papita 
was  the  first  to  speak  ;  and  taking  exception  to  the  Cataloiiian 
fashion  of  his  dress,  fortified  her  own  position  by  commencing 
hostilities  before  the  young  man  had  time  to  ask  questions, 
which  she  felt  herself  unable  to  answer  satisfactorily. 

"  So,  Chaleco,  you  have  come  back  at  last,  and  more  like 
a  stranger  than  ever.  What  Busne  has  bewitched  you  in  the 
fair  at  Seville,  that  you  return  to  Granada  in  a  dress  like 
that  ?" 

"Why,  mother,  this  is  all  folly.  I  have  but  added  this 
cap  to  the  garments  that  I  wore  when  we  went  from  hence. 
Surely  this  is  not  a  thing  to  provoke  your  wrath,"  cried  the 
young  man,  taking  a  scarlet  cap  from  his  head  with  that  half-shy, 
half-defying  look  with  which  some  men  receive  female  criticism 
on  their  dress,  and  grasping  it  with  the  heavy  tassel  of  blue 
silk  in  his  hand — "  Aurora  will  not  condemn  it  so  sharply,  I 
dare  say." 

The  mention  of  this  name  seemed  to  embitter  the  old  wo 
man's  reply. 

"It  is  a  Moorish  cap,  no  true  Gitano  would  wear  it,"  she 
said,  eyeing  the  unfortunate  cap  with  a  contemptuous  glance, 
"  and  your  dress  of  dark  blue  velvet  embroidered  at  the  neck — 
pockets  with  gold  upon  the  seams — silver  buttons  and  tags 
rattling  from  their  rings — and  chains  over  your  bosom  like 
the  bells  around  a  mule's  neck." 

"  Nay,  you  can  find  no  fault  with  the  buttons  ;  they  are 
from  the  best  silver  workers  of  Barcelona,"  cried  the  count, 
flinging  open  the  short  dark  velvet  jacket  with  sleeves,  which 
he  wore  hussar  fashion  over  this  beautiful  dress,  and  revealing 


30       CHALECO   AND  HIS   PLUNDER. 

his  whole  person  with  an  air   of  bravado,  which  the   more 
swarthy  color  on  his  temples  belied. 

The  old  woman  glanced  with  an  expression  that  she  intended 
to  be  oii£  of  unmingled  scorn,  upon  the  embroidered  strips  of 
cloth,  blue  and  yellow,  that  enriched  the  neck  and  elbows  of 
the  young  Gitano's  jacket,  and  allowing  her  eyes  to  glance 
down  to  his  well-turned  limbs,  terminated  her  gaze  at  the  san 
dals  laced  up  to  the  knee  by  many-colored  ribbons. 

The  young  man  followed  her  glance  with  a  half-shy,  half- 
provoked  look. 

"  At  any  rate,  you  cannot  find  fault  with  this,  or  this,"  he 
said,  drawing  her  attention  to  a  rich  scarf  of  crimson  silk 
around  his  waist,  ^nd  a  handkerchief  in  which  many  gorgeous 
colors  were  blended,  that  was  knotted  loosely  around  his  well- 
formed  neck.  "  I  can  only  remember  seeing  the  gipsy  count, 
your  husband,  once  when  I  was  a  boy,  but  I  know  well  that  he 
wore  a  dress  not  unKke  this  that  you  revile  so,  with  a  scarf  and 
kerchief  that  might  have  come  from  the  same  loom." 

The  old  Sibyl  kindled  up  like  an  aged  war-horse  at  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet — her  withered  features  worked,  her  sharp 
eyes  dilated,  a  grim  smile  crept  over  her  lips. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember,  and  it  is  this  that  fills  my  heart  with 
bitterness.  He  wrested  these  things  from  our  foes,  the  Busne. 
They  were  his  portion  "of  the  spoil.  He  laid  many  an  ambush, 
and  reddened  his  knife  more  than  once  for  the  frippery  which 
you  get  in  easier  ways  ;  for  every  button  that  he  wore,  his  peo 
ple  had  some  gain  of  their  own  to  show.  How  is  it  with  you, 
Chaleco  ? — how  many  of  our  people  have  been  fortunate,  that 
you  are  tricked,  out  so  bravely  ?  How  many  mules  did  you 
shear  in  Seville,  to  earn  what  is  upon  your  back  ?" 

"  Aurora  would  not  taunt  me  so,"  said  the  gipsy,  with  a 
fierce  gesture,  "  if  she  did  "- 

"  Well,  what  then  ?"  rejoined  the  old  woman,  sharply,  though 
her  fierce  eye  quailed  a  little,  and  a  quick  ear  might  have 
detected  something  like  terror  in  her  voice. 

"Why,  then,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  would  send  word  that 


CHALECO     AND     HIS     PLUNDER.  31 

the  ton  of  sweetmeats  in  which  we  shall  dance  knee  deep  at 
our  marriage  festival,  should  be  kept  back  ;  and  I  would  fling 
this  chain  of  gold,  which  shall  lace  up  her  wedding  bodice,  into 
the  Darro.  It  is  because  you  are  old  and  learned — the  widow 
of  a  great  count,  that  I  have  borne  all  these  gibes  so  tamely  ; 
no  one  else  in  the  tribe  should  revile  me  thus.  She  least  of  all." 

Either  the  stern  tone  which  the  young  man  assumed,  or  his 
praise  of  her  dead  husband,  softened  the  austere  temper  of  the 
old  woman.  Perhaps  it  might  be  the  unwonted  sight  of  that 
gold  ornament,  or  what  is  most  probable,  her  attack  upon  the 
young  man  had  been  an  artful  scheme  to  gain  time,  till  her 
grand-daughter  should  appear.  Certain  it  is,  her  face  took  an 
expression  less  in  character  than  the  wrath  had  been  with  her 
weird  features.  A  crafty,  sly  expression  stole  into  her  eyes  ; 
her  mouth  stirred  with  a  slow  smile,  moving  sluggishly  as  the 
worm  creeps.  She  reached  out  her  hand  for  the  chain,  and 
letting  it  drop*to  a  heap  in  her  palm,  bent  over  it  with  a  look 
of  gloating  avarice  that  would  have  been  hideous  to  any  one 
but  the  Gitano,  who  had  witnessed  these  scenes  from  his  birth. 

The  old  woman  looked  suddenly  up.  A  fierce  light  was  in 
her  eyes. 

"  The  rings  in  my  ears  are  red  hot ;  the  chain  burns  in  my 
palm  ;  I  know  the  sign  ;  the  Busne  has.  been  forced  to  give  up 
his  gold  once  more.  Our  people  have  not  altogether  sunk 
down  to  be  mere  trimmers  of  mules  and  donkeys.  You  did  not 
work  for  this,  my  Chaleco  1" 

"  Hush  !"  said  the  gipsy,  lifting  his  finger  with  a  smile,  in 
which  terror  and  triumph  was  blended,  "  the  Busne  may  be 
hanging  about  our  caves.  The  chain  is  for  Aurora.  She  shall 
wear  it  upon  her  bosom  on  our  wedding  day.  But  where  is 
she  ?  Your  sharp  words  have  driven  her  from  my  mind  !" 

"  No,  no,  my  son,  it  is  well  that  we  are  alone  ;  you  have 
accomplished  a  great  deed — a  deed  worthy  of  Aurora's  grand 
father,  he  who  has  stained  many  a  rood  of  soil  with  Busiie 
blood — but  times  have  changed  since  he  roamed  the  hills  with 
our  people.  If  there  was  blood — and  the  gold  burns  my  palm 


32       CHALECO  AND  HIS  PLUNDER. 

as  if  it  had  been  baptized — they  will  be  on  our  track,  hunting 
you  into  our  holes  as  they  do  the  foxes.  Tell  me  how  it  all 
happened  ;  my  heart  burns  to  hear  ;  the  tidings  have  filled  these 
old  veins  as  with  wine  ;  I  had  begun  to  be  ashamed  of  my  peo 
ple.  Sit  down,  Chaleco,  here,  on  the  old  chair  which  he,  took 
from  the  choir  of  their  proudest  cathedral  while  the  priests 
were  chanting  mass.  You  never  sat  in  it  before  ;  but  now 
that  you  have  reddened  your  finger  nails — warmed  my  palm 
with  gold  that  is  not  worked  for,  the  seat  is  yours.  Sit  down, 
my  son,  while  I  draw  close,  that  we  may  talk  1" 

The  young  gipsy  sat  down,  but  evidently  with  some  impa 
tience  ;  and  the  Sibyl  creeping  close  to  his  side,  placed  herself 
on  a  low  bench,  and,  bending  forward,  fixed  her  glittering  eyes 
on  his  face. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  rubbing  her  thin  hands  together,  and 
chafing  the  chain  between  them,  "tell  me,  is  this  all?  The 
chief  takes  one  third  of  the  whole,  that  is  the  law  of  the 
Cales." 

"  No,  there  was  gold,  a  thousand  pieces,  packed  away  upon 
a  mule." 

"A  thousand  pieces  I  Oh,  my  son,  I  saw  great  luck  in  the 
stars  for  you — but  a  thousand  pieces  ! — this  is  wonderful  !" 

"  Besides,  there  was  a  watch  with  double  case,  all  fine  gold, 
and  some  rings  which  were  too  large  for  Aurora's  finger,  so  we 
buried  them  in  the  ground,  with  the  gold  and  other  treasures. 
Here  is  something.  I  am  not  sure  about  giving  this  to  her,  these 
glittering  things  on  the  back  may  be  of  value.  I  found  it  hung 
to  the  Busne's  neck  by  the  chain  ;  here  is  his  own  face,  it  may 
yet  bring  us  into  trouble.  Look  " 

The  chief  drew  a  locket  from  his  bosom  shaped  like  a  cockle 
shell.  The  whole  outside  was  paved  with  pearls  swelling  into 
the  several  compartments.  The  scalloped  edges  were  bright 
with  diamonds  of  great  value.  He  touched  a  spring,  and 
within  this  exquisite  trinket  two  miniatures  were  revealed. 
One  was  that  of  a  young  man,  fair,  with  a  bright,  clear  com 
plexion,  fine  eyes  of  greyish  blue,  a  delicate  forehead,  pure  as 


CHALECO   AND  HI8   PLUNDER.       33 

enow  m  color,  and  teeming  with  thought ;  a  mouth  somewhat 
full,  and  of  deep  coral  red,  with  a  fair  curling  beard  of  rich 
brown,  kindled  up  by  a  tinge  of  gold  ;  hair  a  little  deeper  in 
tint,  but  with  the  same  metallic  lustre  breaking  through  its 
haavy  waves.  This  was  the  face,  fair,  animated,  and  lighted 
up  with  a  beautiful  smile,  that  first  presented  itself  to  the  old 
Sibyl's  gaze.  She  arose,  took  down  the  candle,  and  peered 
over  it  in  silence.  The  contrast  was  striking,  that  tawny, 
witch-like  countenance,  and  the  beautiful  shadows"  smiling  out 
from  its  bed  of  jewels. 

There  was  a  female  portrait  on  the  other  side  ;  but  it  was 
that  of  a  woman  somewhat  older  than  the  youth  could  have 
been  ;  but,  though  of  different  complexion,  there  was  one  of 
those  indefinite  resemblances  between  the  two  faces  which  exist 
independent  of  features,  running  through  families,  and  connect 
ing  them  in  the  eyes  of  the  beholder  with  a  subtle  influence, 
as  one  feels  that  a  rose  is  near,  by  the  perfume  which  is  itself 
impalpable. 

The  Sibyl  only  glanced  at  the  female  face,  and  turned  to 
that  of  the  young  man  again  with  keener  interest.  You  could 
see  by  the  workings  of  her  face  that  she  was  beginning  to  hate 
that  beautiful  shadow  ;  for  there  was  a  terrible  gleam  in  her 
eye  when  she  closed  the  shell  with  a  snap,  and  clutched  it  in 
her  hand. 

"  No,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  my  grand-daughter  shall  not  wear 
this  thing.  The  bright  sparks  are  diamonds  ;  the  white  ridges 
are  of  oriental  pearls.  But  the  face  is  that  of  the  Busne  ;  it  does 
not  belong  to  Spain  either  ;  hair  and  eyes  of  that  color  come 
from  beyond  sea.  It  is  worth  more  than  all  your  gold  or  the 
other  trinkets  ;  but  she  shall  not  wear  it.  I  saw  a  face  like 
this  between  me  and  the  stars  to-night.  Was  the  man  you 
plundered  like  it  P 

"  It  was  himself  ;  two  faces  were  never  more  alike  1" 

"  And  your  knife,  is  it  red  ?  Did  you  leave  him  in  the 
hills  P 

"No,  mother,"  replied  the  chief,  blushing,  as  if  ashamed. 

2* 


34:       CHALECO  AND  HIS  PLUNDER. 

that  he  had  no  crime  of  blood  to  confess,  "  he  made  no  resist 
ance  ;  we  were  many,  he  nearly  alone,  for  the  guards  fled  as 
we  rushed  upon  them.  We  did  not  kill  him,  there  was  no 
reason  in  it." 

"  How  long  was  this  ago  ?"  * 

"  It  was  threef  days  after  we  left  Granada  1" 

"  That  is  almost  six  weeks — but  where  ?" 

"  About  half  way  between  this  and  Seville  1" 

"  And  did  you  take  the  plunder  along  ?" 

"We  buried  it  on  the  spot  ;  went  to  the  fair  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  and  dug  it  up  as  we  came  home." 

"  And  which  way  went  the  traveller  ?" 

"  We  did  not  "wait  to  see  ;  his  face  was  toward  Granada 
when  we  met  him  ;  that  is  all  I  can  say." 

"Go  from  my  sight — you  should  have  killed  this  viper — he 
was  crawling  this  way." 

"  Mother  !" 

"  Go — go,  but  first  let  me  grind  this  thing  to  powder  with 
my  foot ;  help  me  to  spoil  his  face  ;  you  can  pick  up  the 
diamonds  from  the  dirt  when  I  have  done  stamping  on  them !" 

"  No,  mother,  *it  is  worth  ni*ney — give  it  to  me  !" 

The  old  woman  unclutched  her  hand  and  flung  the  trinket 
against  the  wall  of  her  cave,  where  it  fell  back  with  a  rebound 
to  her  feet. 

"  Leave  it,"  she  said,  with  a  fierce  laugh,  "  the  thing  is 
accursed — leave  it  and  go." 

"  Not  till  I  have  seen  Aurora,"  said  the  young  man,  looking 
wistfully  at  the  jewel.  "It  is  late,  very  late,  she  must  be 
yonder  in  her  nest,  ashamed  to  come  forth  without  a  bidding 
from  her  betrothed.  Step  aside,  mother,  I  have  waited  too 
long." 

The  young  chief  strode  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  touching 
a  door  which  was  half  concealed  behind  the  old  woman's  chair,, 
flung  it  open,  revealing,  by  the  light  that  stood  in  its  niche 
close  by,  an  inner  room,  in  which  the  outline  of  a  low  bed  and 
some  furniture  was  visible. 


CHALECO     AND     HIS     PLUNDER.  35 

"  Aurora,"  said  the  young  man,  "  come,  come,  I  have  waited 
long." 

"  She  is  not  there,"  said  the  old  woman,  in  a  low  voice,  while 
her  head  drooped  downward. 

"Not  there?  Nay,  nay,  I  know  better,  she  is  only  shy, 
hiding  away  like  a  young  fox.  See  if  I  do  not  find  her." 

He  snatched  the  light  and  went  into  the  little  sleeping  cell. 
The  bed  was  there,  covered  with  fine  old  chintz.  A  little  table 
and  two  chairs  stood  in  their  several  places.  The  scent  of 
fresh  flowers  filled  the  cell,  which,  by  its  cleanliness,  its  little 
ornaments,  and  the  fragrance  that  floated  on  the  close  air. 
proved  that  its  occupant  was  no  ordinary  woman  of  her  tribe, 
But  everything  was  silent.  No  sparkling  eyes  full  of  mischief, 
no  wild  laugh  met  the  young  gipsy  as  he  expected.  He  stood 
a  moment  with  the  caudle  held  up,  gazing  around  the  room  ; 
then  a  painful  thought  seemed  to  strike  him.  He  turned  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  old  woman. 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

"  It  was  all  he  said,  but  there  was  something  fierce  in  the 
question. 

"  She  went  to  the  Alhambra  this  morning,  and  has  not  come 
back  yet." 

Tl^e  old  woman  did  not  lift  her  eyes  as  she  spoke  ;  why, 
she  herself  could  not  have  explained  ;  but  every  time  that 
night,  when  word  or  thought  had  turned  to  her  grandchild, 
this  strange  cowardice  seized  her. 

"I  will  go  seek  Aurora,"  said  the  young  gipsy,  striding 
towards  the  door. 

"  You  /"  cried  the  old  woman,  springing  like  a  tigress  be 
tween  him  and  the  entrance.  "Would  you  break  the  be 
trothal  ?  Would  you  cast  shame  on  my  blood  ?  Would  you 
have  the  whole  tribe  hooting  at  you  both  ?" 

The  chief  hesitated.  He  knew  well  that  the  gipsy  law  prohi 
bited  the  act  he  meditated.  That  for  a  betrothed  pair  to 
wander  alone,  or  arrange  a  meeting  beyond  the  confines  of  the 
settlement,  would  sunder  them  forever.  He  thought  of  this  and 


36  CHALECO     AND     HIS     PLUNDER. 

hesitated.  But  the  hot  blood  of  a  jealous  nature  was  on  his 
forehead  ;  he  could  hardly  restrain  himself. 

"  With  what  man  of  our  tribe  does  she  wander  at  this  time 
of  night  ?"  he  demanded,  fiercely. 

"  With  none;  she  has  scarcely  spoken  to  man  or  woman  of 
our  people  since  you  left  for  Seville,"  replied  the  old  woman, 
with  a  look  of  earnest  truth  that  could  not  but  appease  his  sus 
picions  in  that  quarter. 

"  But  she  is  not  alone  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know;  travellers  are  plenty  in  the  Alhambra  just 
now  !" 

"  Travellers  !"  repeated  the  chief,  with  a  scornful  laugh,  and 
the  hot  blood  left  his  forehead — "  the  Busne,  ha  !  ha  !  why  not 
say  this  before — the  little  fox,  she  is  at  her  work  there.  Aurora 
is  a  wife  worthy  of  your  count,  old  mother  ;  hers  are  the  eyes 
that  draw  gold  from  the  Busne.  But  now  that  I  have  come 
back,  she  must  not  stay  out  so  late ;  I  would  look  in  her  eyes 
myself,  the  sly  one.  Tell  here  so,  mother — at  daylight  I  will  be 
here  again." 

Relieved  from  the  sharp  feeling  of  jealousy  that  had  at  first 
possessed  him,  the  gipsy  count  strode  away  content  and  happy 
— a  little  disappointed  at  not  seeing  his  betrothed  that'  night, 
but  rather  proud  than  otherwise,  that  she  was  employed  in 
wiling  gold  by  her  sweet  arts  from  the  people  whom  it  was  his 
duty  to  hate.  The  idea  that  there  could  be  danger  or  wrong  to 
him,  in  her  adventures  with  the  white  travellers  it  was  her  duty 
to  delude,  never  entered  his  mind.  To  him,  in  common  with  the 
whole  tribe,  the  idea  of  an  attachment  between  a  gipsy  maiden 
and  one  of  another  race  was  an  impossibility.  Had  my  old 
grandame  said  that  Aurora  was  out  gathering  flowers,  he 
might  have  been  less  proud,  but  not  better  satisfied.  The  idea 
of  being  jealous  of  a  Gentile,  a  Busne,  was  impossible. 

But  my  grandmother  was  of  a  diiferent  nature.  She  possessed 
that  rare  organization  which  is  called  genius  in  civilized  life,  and 
magic  with  us;  that  exquisite  sensitiveness  of  nerve  and  thought, 
which  took  the  shadow  of  coming  events  long  before  they  be 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  37 

come  a  reality.  This,  with  her  acute  wit,  her  sharp  observation, 
her  strange  habits  of  solitary  thought,  rendered  her  a  wonderful 
being.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  describe  this.  I  can  no  more 
tell  you  why  my  grandame  possessed  the  power  tf'  feeling  what 
was  about  to  happen,  than  I  co*ld  divide  the  elements  that 
sparkle  in  a  cup  of  water,  but  the  truth  was  there.  She  fancied 
that  her  knowledge  came  through  the  stars.  But  in  natures 
endowed  like  hers,  there  is  something  more  wonderful  than  all 
the  stars  of  heaven  can  reveal. 

What  was  it  that  induced  her  that  night  to  fill  that  bronze 
vessel  with  those  strange  poisonous  herbs  ?  Why  did  she  watch 
them  distill  so  sadly,  and  yet  with  such  stern  patience  ?  What 
would  the  juice  of  these  herbs  become  ?  I  will  tell  you  another 
time.  Now  let  us  follow  my  grandmother.  She  was  old,  feeble 
— for  years  she  had  not  been  known  to  walk  half  a  mile.  But 
that  night  she  went  forth  alone,  creeping  down  the  hill-side, 
through  the  hollows  along  the  river's  bank — up,  up,  like  some 
hungry  animal  that  dared  to  prowl  through  those  ravines  only 
at  night-time.  She  was  almost  bent  double  at  times,  and  looked 
in  truth  like  a  wild  animal,  but  her  purpose  was  strong,  and  that 
carried  her  forward. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

A  FOREST  of  lilies  seemed  to  have  poured  both  whiteness  and 
fragrance  upon  the  moonbeams  as  they  fell,  softly  as  the  flower 
breathes,  on  the  grim  towers  and  fairy-like  courts  of  the  Al- 
hambra.  It  was  not  very  late,  but  all  about  the  ruins  lay 
still  as  midnight:  The  nightingales  had  nestled  down  to  sleep 
among  the  roses,  leaving  the  air  which  they  had  thrilled  with 


38  THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

music  to  the  mysterious  chime  of  hidden  brooklets,  the  bell-like 
tinkle  of  water-drops  falling  into  unseen  fountains,  and  the  faint 
ripple  of  leaves  and  roses,  as  they  yielded  their  voluptuous 
breath  to  the  night  winds. 

The  sounds  that  came  from  the  distant  city  but  served  to 
render  this  solitude  more  complete.  The  baying  of  dogs,  the 
low  tinkle  of  guitars,  the  faint,  hive-like  hum  that  rose  up  from 
the  dim  mass  of  buildings,  seemed  all  of  another  world.  A 
spirit  looking  down  upon  earth  from  beyond  the  stars,  could  not 
have  felt  more  completely  isolated  than  a  person  wandering  in 
the  Alhambra  after  the  nightingales  were  asleep. 

Whatever  of  human  life  had  been  hanging  about  the  ruins 
that  day  should  have  disappeared  long  ago,  for  travelling  was 
not  so  common  as  it  is  now,  and  few" persons  chose  to  seek  the 
Alhambra  after  dark.  But  on  this  night  there  was  a  sound 
now  and  then  breaking  the  stillness — the  tread  of  footsteps 
wandering  about  the  ruins.  You  heard  them  at  intervals  with 
long  pauses,  and  from  various  points,  as  if  some  one  were 
roaming  about  within  the  very  walls  of  the  palace. 

This  sound  had  continued  some  time.  It  issued  first  from 
that  beautiful  double  corridor  which  was  once  the  grand  en 
trance  to  those  enchanting  scenes,  that  even  in  ruins  have  more 
than  the  *ascinations  of  romance.  Time,  that  has  dimmed  their 
first  loveliness,  but  leaves  broader  scope  for  the  imagination, 
which,  starting  from  these  vestiges  of  beauty,  rebuilds,  creates, 
becomes  luxurious.  Contrast,  too,  has  its  share;  the  bleak, 
almost  rude  severity  pf  those  grim  towers,  the  weeds,  the 
broken  stonework,  the  walls  tracing  the  uneven  slopes  of  the 
hill,  the  ruined  defences,  all  give  a  force,  and  brighten  the 
exquisite  grace  of  that  little  Paradise,  which  takes  one  by  sur 
prise. 

Well,  the  footsteps,  I  have  said,  came  from  this  corridor, 
once  the  thoroughfare  of  kings.  Then  they  were  heard  from 
the  gorgeous  saloon  on  the  right,  composing  a  portion  of  those 
apartments  in  which  the  Moorish  Sultanas  spent  their  isolated 
lives.  Then  these  footsteps  moved  towards  the  great  tower  of 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  39 

Comares,  and  two  shadowy  forms  appeared  moving  slowly, 
almost  languidly,  between  the  slender  columns  and  azulejo  pil 
lars  of  a  gallery  that  leads  that  way. 

These  persons — for  two  were  walking  close  together,  and 
with  footsteps  so  light  that  those  of  the  female  seemed  but  an 
echo  of  the  harder  and  firmer  tread  of  the  man — these  persons 
were  not  wandering  in  that  heavenly  place,  you  may  be  certain, 
from  a  desire  to  examine  the  wonderful  beauty  that  surrounded 
them.  They  had  ^looked  a  thousand  times  on  those  singular 
remnants  of  art.  Besides,  the  gallery  was  almost  wrapped  in 
shadow,  and  the  rich  colours,  the  lace-like  stucco,  the  dim  gild 
ing,  were  all  flowing  together  unveiling  the  darkness,  but 
nothing  more. 

They  hurried  on,  for  the  dome  of  heavy  wood  that  overhung 
them  seemed  gloomy  and  portentous  as  a  thunder-cloud.  The 
shadows  within  those  noble  carvings  were  black  as  ebony.  The 
beautiful  design,  the  long,  graceful  stalactites,  honeycombed 
and  dashed  with  gold,  all  breaking  out  as  from  the  midnight  of 
ages,  had  a  sombre  effect.  It  seemed,  as  I  have  said  before, 
like  a  storm-cloud  condensed  over  them,  full  of  gloom  and  pro 
phetic  wrath.  My  parents  had  come  forth  in  search  of  joy, 
light,  beauty — things  that  would  harmonize  with  the  ineffable 
happiness  that  overflowed  their  own  young  hearts — and  they 
hastened  from  beneath  this  frowning  roof,  with  its  marvel  of 
art,  its  grim  antiquity,  as  we  flee  from  the  chill  of  a  vault  to  the 
warm  sunshine. 

Other  persons  might  have  lost  themselves  in  this  labyrinth  of 
beauty,  but  my  mother  had  trod  those  ruined  halls  before  she 
could  remember,  and  the  darkness  was  nothing  against  her  en 
tire  knowledge  of  the  place.  N^w  she  stood  in  that  miracle  of 
beauty,  the  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors,  the  grand  Moorish  state 
chamber  which  occupies  the  entire  Comares  Tower.  They  were 
no  longer  in  darkness,  for  through  the  deep  embrasures  of  its 
windows  came  the  moonlight,  falling  upon  the  pavement  in  long 
gleams  of  radiance,  and  flowing  over  the  rich  colors  like  the 
unfolding  of  a  silver  banner. 


40  THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

It  fell  upon  the  walls  with  their  exquisite  tracery  heavy  in 
themselves,  but  so  refined  by  art  that  the  golden  filagree  work 
of  Genoa  is  scarcely  more  delicate,  and  snow  itself  less  pure.  It 
gilded  the  azulejos.  By  this  I  mean  those  exquisite  little  tiles, 
brilliant  as  the  richest  enamel,  of  various  tints — blue,  red,  and 
yellow  predominating — which  inlaid  a  gorgeous  recess  in  the 
wall,  and  glittered  around  that  raised  platform  which  had 
been  the  foundation  of  a  lost  throne,  now  glowing  in  gorgeous 
masses,  as  if  precious  stones  had  been  imbedded  in  the  snow- 
work.  All  this  was  so  richly  revealed,  so  mistily  hidden,  that 
with  a  full  knowledge  of  all  which  the  shadows  kept  from  vfew, 
the  imagination  would  take  flight,  and  you  felt  as  if  the  gates 
of  Paradise  must  have  been  flung  open,  before  even  a  glimpse 
of  so  much  beauty  could  be  given  to  mortal  eyes. 

For  a  moment  even  those  two  lovers,  in  the  first  sublime 
egotism  of  passion  which  was  destiny  to  them,  stood  hushed 
and  dumb  as  they  found  themselves  beneath  the  dome  of  that 
wonderful  chamber.  It  was  before  the  present  ribs  of  wood 
and  masses  of  intricate  carving  were  introduced,  with  all  their 
elaborated  gloom,  to  brood  over  the  most  graceful  specimen  of 
art  that  human  genius  ever  devised.  The  original  dome 
arched  above  them  seventy  feet  in  the  air,  pure,  majestic,  gor 
geous,  as  if  the  gold  and  crimson  of  a  sunset  sky  were  striving 
to  break  through  the  masses  of  summer  clouds  centred  there. 
Then  they  became  accustomed  to  the  light,  and  things  grew 
more  distinct.  The  glorious  moonlight  of  southern  Europe  is 
so  luminous — the  darkness  that  it  casts  so  deep — it  leaves  no 
beauty  unrevealed — it  gathers  all  deformity  under  its  shadows. 

Every  beautiful  line  of  art  that  surrounded  them  was  not 
only  revealed,  but  idealized,  'JJhe  noble  stucco  work  within  the 
dome,  moulded  into  exquisite  designs  two  feet  deep,  pure  as  if 
cut  from  the  snow-ridges  of  Alpujarras — the  ground-work  of 
gorgeous  colors,  red,  blue,  gold  glowing  out  from  those  depths 
of  woven  whiteness — the  long,  delicate  stalactites  dripping  with 
moonlight,  and  peering  downward  from  the  compartments  of 
each  deep  interstice,  as  if  the  snow-work,  beginning  to  melt, 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  41 

had  frozen  again  into  great  icicles — the  pure  whiteness  all 
around,  the  colors  burning  underneath,  or  breaking  out  in  rich 
masses  like  belts  of  jewels  near  the  pavement — all  this,  as  I  have 
said,  made  even  the  lovers  tread  across  the  chamber  cautiously 
and  in  silence.  The  stillness,  the  glow,  the  moonlight,  made 
even  the  stealthy  tread  of  their  footsteps  a  sacrilegious  intru 
sion. 

They  stole  into  one  of  the  deep  recesses  of  a  window,  where 
the  moonlight  fell  upon  them  full  and  broad.  The  walls  were 
so  deep  that  it  gave  them  a  sort  of  seclusion.  They  began  to 
breathe  more  freely,  and  the  deep  spell  that  had  rapt  their 
hearts  for  an  instant,  gave  way  to  the  rich  flood  of  happiness 
that  no  power  on  earth  could  long  hold  in  abeyance. 

They  stood  together  in  the  recess,  but  with  a  touch  of  art — 
for  entire  love  has  always  a  shyness  in  it,  a  sort  of  holy  reserve, 
which  is  the  modesty  of  passion — Aurora's  eyes  were  turned 
aside,  not  exactly  to  the  floor,  but  she  seemed  gazing  upon  the 
beautiful  plain  of  Granada,  which  lay  like  a  stretch  of  Paradise 
far  below  them.  He  was  looking  in  her  face,  for  there  was 
something  of  wild  beauty,  of  the  shy  grace  which  one  sees  in  a 
half-tamed  bird,  which  would  have  drawn  the  eyes  of  a  less 
interested  person  upon  the  gipsy  girl,  as  she  stood  there  with 
the  radiant  moonlight  falling  upon  her  like  a  veil.  As  she 
looked  forth  a  shade  of  sadness  fell  upon  her  face,  singular  as 
it  was  beautiful,  for  in  her  wild  life  the  passions  seldom  found 
repose  enough  for  that  gentle  twilight  of  the  soul,  sadness. 
But  it  was  both  strange  and  lovely,  that  unwonted  softness,  the 
first  sweet  hush  of  civilization  upon  her  meteor-like  spirit. 
Still  he  could  see  her  eyes  glitter  through  those  curling  lashes, 
thick,  long,  inky  as  night,  but  i  nothing  could  entirely  shut 
out  the  wonderful  radiance  of  those  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  so  earnestly,  my  bird  ?"  said  the 
young  man,  reaching  forth  his  hand  as  if  to  draw  her  closer  to 
his  side. 

But  she  hung  back,  and  for  the  first  time  seemed  to  shrink 
from  him. 


42  THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

"  Will  you  not.  speak  ?  .  Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Aurora  ?" 
he  added  with  a  tone  of  feeling  that  changed  her  face  in  an 
instant. 

"Afraid!  no,  no — that  is  not  the  word — but  this  moment, 
something  came  over  me  as  I  looked  upon  our  fires  up  the 
ravine  yonder.  It  seems  as  if  every  cave  were  full  of  light  this 
evening,  and  our  people — my  people — were  rejoicing  over  some 
thing." 

"Well,  child,  and  what  then?  Why  should  this  make  you 
shrink  away  from  me  thus  ?"  questioned  the  young  man,  smil 
ing  gently  upon  her  as  he  spoke. 

"  It  may  be  over  his  return." 

She  spoke  the  word  with  a  sort  of  gasp,  and  of  her  own 
accord  crept  close  to  his  side,  drawing  a  deep  breath  as  he 
folded  her  with  his  arm. 

"  His  return  !     Of  whom  do  you  speak,  little  one  ?" 

"  Of — of  Chaleco,"  faltered  the  gipsy  child. 

"  And  who  is  Chaleco  ?" 

"  Our  chief — the  Gipsy  Count  of  our  people — the  husband 
they  have  given  to  me  !" 

"  The  husband  they  have  given  to  you  !"  cried  the  young 
Englishman,  flinging  aside  his  arm,  and  drawing  back — "the 
husband,  Aurora  !" 

Aurora  started  back,  even  as  he  did,  for  she  was  not  a  woman 
to  be  spurned,  child  and  gipsy  though  she  was.  She  did  not 
speak,  but  her  eyes  flashed,  and  her  lips  began  to  curl.  She 
was  a  proud  wild  thing,  that  y^ung  Gitana ;  and  the  fire  of  her 
race  began  to  kindle  up  beneath  the  love  that  had  smothered  it 
so  long. 

"  Aurora,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this  earlier  ?  How  could 
I  think  it — you,  who  in  my  own  country  would  yet  be  so 
mere  a  child — how  could  I  dream  that  you  were  already  mar 
ried  r 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  cried  the  young  girl,  and  her  eyes  be 
came  dazzling  in  the  moonlight,  so  eager  was  she  to  make  her 
self  understood.  "It  is  not  yet — he,  Chaleco,  my  grandmother, 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  43 

all  the  tribe  say  that,  it  must  be — o,nd  I  know  that  he  is  to  hurry 
home  the  sweetmeats  and  presents  from  Seville." 

"  The  sweetmeats  ?  What  have  sweetmeats  to  do  with 
us  ?» 

"Nothing,  I  dare  say  ;  perhaps  you  do  not  use  them;  but 
with  us  there  is  no  marriage  without  sweetmeats,  a  ton  or  more. 
I  heard  Chaleco  say  once  that  he  would  dance  knee  deep  in  them 
when  I  become  his — his  " 

She  broke  off,  and  her  face  became  dusky  with  the  hot  blood 
that  rushed  over  it,  for  the  Englishman,  spite  of  his  anger  and 
of  his  sharp  interest  in  the  subject,  burst  into  a  fit  of  merry 
laughter. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips — "  does 
it  please  you  that  they  will  marry  me  to  Chaleco — that  my  life 
must  end  then  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Aurora?  I  never  saw  you  weep,  but 
your  voice  seems  choked  with  tears.  Tell  me  what  is  this  trou 
ble  that  threatens  us  ?  What  is  it  makes  you  weep,  for  I  see 
now  that  your  eyes  are  full,  that  your  cheeks  are  wet  ?  Come 
close  to  me,  darling,  say,  what  is  it  ?  Not  my  foolish  laughter, 
I  could  not  help  it,  child,  the  idea  of  dancing  one's  self  into 
married  life  through  an  ocean  of  sweetmeats  was  too 'ridicu 
lous  1" 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Aurora,  gently,  for  the  tears  she  was 
shedding  had  quenched  all  her  anger.  "  It  does  not  seem  so  to 
us,  but  then  a  poor  child  who  cannot  help  fearing  death  a  little, 
when  she  knows  that  the  grave  lies  beyond  all  this,  it  may  well 
trouble  her." 

"  The  grave,  Aurora  ! — what  has  driven  you  mad  ?  The 
grave  for  you,  my  pretty  wild  bird  ?  Nay,  nay,"  leave  this  sort 
of  nervousness  to  our  fine  ladies  at  home.  Here  it  is  pure  non 
sense." 

"  Hush  1"  exclaimed,  my  mother,  and  her  eyes  flashed  like 
lightning  as  she  turned  them  around  the  vast  chamber.  "  That 
was  a  sound;  surely  I  heard  some  one  move." 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  said  the  young  man,  listening  and  speak- 


44  THE     MIDNIGHT     KAMBLE. 

ing  low.  "  It  was  a  bat  probably,  flitting  across  the  dome — 
these  things  are  common,  you  know  " 

"  Yes,  yes  1  but  yonder  the  shadows  are  moving." 

"  I  see  nothing  \» 

"But  I  did/7  whispered  the  young  girl,  wildly,  "  I  did  !" 

''  It  might  have  been  something  sweeping  between  the  moon 
light  and  the  window,"  suggested  her  companion,  who,  quite 
ignorant  of  any  great  danger  in  being  watched,  felt  little  anx 
iety  about  the  matter. 

"  This  was  no  cypress  bough,  no  bat  trying  its  wings  in  the 
night.  Such  movements  are  common  here,  but  they  do  not  chill 
one  to  the  soul  like  this — see  1" 

The  gipsy  placed  her  little  hands  in  those  of  the  young  man, 
and  though  she  clasped  her  fingers  hard  together  both  her 
hands  and  jtrms  trembled  till  they  shook  his. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  Aurora?"  he  questioned,  earnestly. 
"  I  thought  nerves  were  only  for  fine  ladies." 

There  was  a  slight  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  but  the  girl  did  not 
seem  to  heed  it.  Her  great  wild  eyes  continued  to  roam  over 
the  ambassador's  chamber,  and  she  listened,  not  to  him,  but  for 
something  that  seemed  lurking  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  room. 
At  length  she  drew  a  deep  breath  as  if  inexpressibly  relieved, 
and  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  again. 

"  It  is  gone,"  she  said,  smiling  uneasily — "  it  is  gone  !" 

"  What  is  gone  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  something  has  just  left  this  room:  I  can 
breathe  again." 

"Did  you  see  any  one  depart  ?w 

"  No  !" 

"  Did  you  hear  it  ?" 

"  No  I" 

"  Then  how  could  you  be  certain  ?" 

"I /eft  it." 

"  How  ?" 

•'  Did  you  never  feel  certain  of  a  presence  which  you  neither 
saw  nor  heard  ?" 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  45 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  perhaps  yes,"  replied  the  young  man, 
thoughtfully;  "the  atmosphere  of  a  particular  person  some 
times  does  seem  to  enwrap  us,  but  this  is  visionary  speculation. 
I  did  not  think  these  vagaries  could  haunt  a  wild,  fresh,  untaxed 
brain  like  yours.  They  have  hitherto  seemed  to  me  purely  the 
result  of  an  over-refined  intellect." 

"  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  grandmother  were  close  by,"  said 
the  gipsy. 

"  Your  grandmother  !  I  thought  she  never  left  her  cave — her 
home  !" 

"  I  know  that — she  could  not  reach  this  place — you  must  be 
right.  But  why  should  the  bare  thought  have  made  me  trem 
ble  if  she  was  not  here — I  who  never  tremble,  at  least  from 
dread  ?" 

"  And  if  not  from  dread,  what  is  the  power  that  can  make 
you  tremble  ?"  inquired  the  youth,  bending  his  mischievous 
eyes  smilingly  upon  her. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  the  little  hands,  still  clasped  in  his, 
began  to  quiver  like  newly-caught  ring-doves.  Those  wonder 
ful  eyes  were  lifted  to  his,  luminous  still,  for  all  the  dews  of  her 
young  soul  could  not  have  quenched  their  brilliancy — but  so 
flooded  with  love-light,  so  eloquent  of  the  one  great  life  passion, 
that  the  smile  died  on  his  lip.  There  was  something  almost 
startling  in  the  thought  that  his  hand  had  stricken  the  crystal 
rock  from  which  such  floods  of  brightness  gushed  forth.  He 
felt  like  one  who  had,  half  in  sport,  aroused  some  sleeping  spirit, 
which  must  henceforth  be  a  destiny  to  him — an  angel  or  a 
demon  in  his  path  forever. 

"  You  almost  make  me  tremble,"  he  whispered,  bending  for 
ward  and  kissing  her  upturned  forehead  softly,  and  with  a  sort 
of  awe.  "  Come,  love,  come,  let  us  walk;  this  still  moonlight 
lies  upon  us  both  like  a  winding-sheet." 

"  Yes,  yes,  let  us  go,"  cried  the  gipsy  eagerly,  and  gliding 
down  the  spacious  hall,  the  two  moved  on,  seeking  that  ex 
quisite  colonnade  from  which  the  Moors  commanded  a  view  of 
the  whole  valley  and  plain  in  which  Granada  stands.  Now  all 


46  THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

was  darkness.  The  slender  marble  shafts  blended  and  bedded 
in  with  coarse  mortar,  were  scarcely  visible.  The  moonbeams 
broke  against  the  rude  walls,  and  fell  powerless  from  the  beau 
tiful  arches  which  they  had  once  flooded  with  silvery  light;  but 
the  lovers  walked  on  through  all  this  gloom  reassured,  and 
with  their  thoughts  all  centred  in  each  other  once  more. 
Aurora  forgot  her  fears,  and  he  was  not  of  an  age  or  tempera 
ment  to  yield  himself  long  to  gloomy  fancies. 

At  length  they  entered  a  small  chamber,  still  in  good  repair, 
and  flooded  with  a  moonlight  which  swept  through  the  delicate 
columns  of  a  small  balcony  or  temple  that  jutted  from  the  outer 
wall.  The  pavement  seemed  flagged  with  solid  silver,  the 
moonbeams  lay  so  hard  and  unbrokenly  upon  it,  and  received 
these  exquisite  shadows  as  virgin  ivory  takes  the  soft  traces  of 
an  artist's  pencil.  The  glow  of  rich  fresco  paintings  broke  out 
from  the  walls,  brilliant  as  when  the  colors  were  first  laid  on 
by  order  of  that  Vandal  Charles.  In  the  soft  scenic  obscurity, 
the  deformity  or  mutilations  of  time  were  unseen.  You  missed 
the  frost-like  Moorish  tracery  from  over  that  bed  of  colors, 
but  scarcely  felt  the  loss  amid  the  misty  gorgeousness  that  re 
placed  it. 

They  passed  through  this  room  and  went  out  upon  the 
marble  colonnade.  Nothing  but  the  delicate  Moorish  shafts  I 
have  mentioned  stood  between  them  and  the  beautiful  plain  of 
Granada.  Lights  still  sparkled  in  all  directions  over  the  old 
city,  as  if  heaven  had  sent  down  a  portion  of  its  stars  to  illumi 
nate  a  spot  that  so  nearly  resembled  itself,  The  gentle  undu 
lations  of  the  plain  were  broken  into  hills  and  ridges  of  the 
richest  green.  The  soft  haze  blended  with  the  moonlight 
where  it  lay  upon  the  horizon.  The  mountains  that  overlooked 
all  this,  on  the  left,  were  cut  up  with  ravines  full  of  black 
shadows,  green  as  emerald  at  the  base,  glittering  with  snow  at 
the  top.  0 

Close  by  was  that  belt  of  huge  dark  trees,  sweeping  around 
the  old  fortress,  with  glimpses  of  the  Darro  breaking  up  through 
the  dusky  foliage — on  the  right,  a  dim  convent  nestled  among 


THE     MIDNIGHT     KAMBLE.  47 

the  hills,  and  nearer  yet,  the  vine-draped  ascent  of  Sierra  del 
Sol,  with  its  mountain  villa,  its  Darro  waters,  its  orange  ter 
race,  and  rose  hedges,  all  filling  the  sweet  night  with  melody 
and  fragrance  !  Do  you  wonder  that  they  forgot  themselves  ? 
— that  they  looked  on  a  scene  like  this  filled  only  with  a  deli 
cious  sense  of  its  beauty  ? 

The  air  was  balmy  with  fragrance,  yet  cool  from  the  moun 
tain  snows,  invigorating,  and  still  voluptuous.  The  entire 
stillness,  too — nothing  was  astir  but  the  sweet,  low  sounds  of 
nature,  the  rustle  of  myrtle  thickets,  the  mournful  shiver  of  a 
cypress  tree  as  the  wind  sighed  through  it,  the  movement  of  a 
bird  in  its  nest. 

Is  it  strange,  I  say,  that  all  this  beauty  became  food  to  the 
love  that  filled  their  young  lives  with  its  first  tumultuous  emo 
tions  ?  That  while  they  forgot  that  love,  and  thought  only  of 
the  scene  before  them,  it  grew  the  stronger  from  neglect  ? 
When  they  did  speak,  it  was  in  low  tones,  and  as  if  a  loud 
word  might  disturb  the  entire  happiness  that  reigned  in  each 
full  heart. 

"  Aurora,  you  have  been  here  many  times  before,  and  at  this 
hour,  perhaps — say,  have  your  eyes  ever  fallen  upon  the  scene 
when  it  was  beautiful  as  now  ?"  murmured  the  young  man, 
dreamily. 

"  I  do  not  know;  I  have  seen  it  a  thousand  times,  but  never, 
never  felt  that  it  was  really  beautiful.  To-night  it  seems  as  if 
I  had  just  been  aroused  from  sleep — that  all  my  life  has  been 
one  dull  stupor.  I  shudder  at  the  remembrance  of  what  I  was. 
I  pant  for  new  scenes  of  beauty — new  emotions,  these  are  so 
full  of  joy.  Tell  me,  Busne,  my  own,  own  Busne,  does  happi 
ness  like  this  never  kill  ?  I  grow  faint  with  it  as  one  does  when 
the  orange  trees  are  thick  overhead,  and  burdened  with  blos 
soms.  My  breath  comes  heavily  as  if  laden  with  their  fra 
grance.  I  long  to  creep  away  into  the  shadows,  yonder,  and 
cry  myself  to  sleep." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  weep,  my  bird  ?  Tears  are  for  the 
unhappy." 


48  THE     MIDNIGHT     KAMBLE. 

"  Yet  you  see  that  I  am  weeping  ;  my  eyes  are  blinded  ; 
the  lights  down  yonder  seem  floating  in  a  mist.  I  cannot  see, 
and  yet  I  know  that  you  are  smiling  there  in  the  moonlight. 
It  is  happiness,  oh,  such  happiness  that  floods  my  eyes." 

He  was  not  smiling,  or  if  he  had  been  for  one  moment, 
the  impulse  died  of  itself  the  next.  Educated  as  he  had  been, 
hemmed  in  by  conventionalities,  it  was  impossible  not  to  be 
startled  by  the  wildness,  the  depth  of  feeling  revealed  by  this 
strange  child.  The  very  reckless  innocence  with  which  she 
exposed  every  sensation  as  it  arose  in  her  heart — the  intensity 
of  feeling  thus  betrayed  made  him  thoughtful,  nay,  anxious. 
It  was  only  for  a  brief  time,  however.  Before  Aurora  could 
notice  his  abstraction  it  had  disappeared. 

"Is  it,  indeed,  love  for  me,  Aurora,  that  makes  you  so 
happy  ?"  he  questioned  with  fond  egotism. 

"I  do  not  know  ;  to-night  I  scarcely  know  myself.  Love  ! 
it  has  a  soft,  sweet  sound — but  does  not  mean  enough.  Oh,  if 
you  could  speak  Rommany  now,  in  our  language  are  such 
words  ;  oh,  how  insipid  your  word  love  is  when  compared  to 
them." 

In  a  deep,  passionate  voice,  the  very  tones  of  which  seemed 
to  thrill  and  burn  into  the  heart,  she  uttered  some  words  in 
pure  Rommany,  that  language  which  has  yet  been  traced  to 
no  given  origin.  Like  ourselves,  it  is  an  outcast,  vagabond 
dialect,  which  baffles  investigation. 

He  understood  nothing  of  what  she  said.  But  her  eyes  so 
dazzlingly  brilliant ;  her  lips  kindled  to  a  vivid  red,  as  it  were, 
by  the  burning  words  that  passed  through  them  ;  the  exquisite 
modulations  of  each  tone,  all  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  the 
young  man — powerful,  but  not  that  which  might  have  been 
expected,  for  it  filled  his  mind  with  distrust. 

She  did  not  heed  the  change  in  his  countenance.  Juliet 
herself  was  never  more  thoroughly  inspired  or  more  trusting. 
Crafty  in  all  things  else,  our  women  are  single-hearted  as 
children  in  their  love.  Truth  itself  is  not  mor&  constant.  Re 
ligion  does  not  give  you  a  trust  more  perfect — religion — love 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  49 

is  a  religion  to  them,  they  have  no  better,  poor,  wandering 
creatures,  bereft  of  all  things,  home,  name,  nationality,  faith. 
But  all  people  must  have  something  that  they  deem  holy,  some 
thing  upon  which  the  soul  can  lean  for  strength  and  comfort. 
Happier  nations  put  faith  in  a  God,  we  poor  outcasts  have 
only  our  household  affections,  and  we  keep  them  sacred  as 
your  altars. 

Though  the  gipsy  adopts  the  faith  of  any  nation  that  gives 
him  protection,  becomes  Catholic,  Protestant,  Mohammedan, 
Idolater,  as  the  case  may  be,  it  is  all  a  pretence.  In  his  soul 
he  loathes  the  object  that  he  craftily  seems  to  worship. 

But  the  Englishman  knew  nothing  of  this.  He  had  no  idea 
of  the  rigid  bonds  with  which  antique  custom  hedges  in  the 
domestic  affections  in  a  gipsy  household.  These  affections 
are  the  most  sacred  thing  known  to  us.  I  have  said  that  as 
a  people  we  have  no  other  religion. 

With  all  this  ignorance  of  our  customs,  how  could  he  com 
prehend  a  creature  like  that,  with  her  unreserve,  her  passion 
so  vivid,  that  it  struggled  constantly  for  some  new  medium 
of  expression,  and  grew  impatient  of  the  stately  Spanish,  and 
the  few  English  words  that  seemed  to  chill  every  impulse 
as  she  strove  to  frame  it  into  utterance.  He  could  not  believe 
that  a  woman  trained  to  deception,  wild,  unchecked,  nay, 
taught  to  believe  the  right  wrong,  was  in  everything  that 
related  to  her  own  womanly  tenderness  true  as  gold — honest 
as  infancy. 

He  shrunk  from  this  poor  child  then,  as  her  own  language 
gushed  up  and  swept  the  cold  Spanish  from  her  lips.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  she  must  have  uttered  those  words  before  ; 
perhaps  to  some  traveller-dupe  like  himself;  perhaps  to  Chaleco 
— Chaleco.  He  began  to  dwell  upon  that  name  with  jealous 
eagerness,  and  coupled  it  with  the  words  of  Roniuiany  that 
still  trembled  on  Aurora's  lips.  For  the  first  time  he  began 
to  doubt  the  poor  gipsy  girl  ;  yet  I,  who  know  the  women 
of  his  own  people  to  the  soul,  say  to  you  most  solemnly,  that 
among  the  best  of  his  fair  compatriots  he  might  have  searched 

3 


50  THE     MIDNIGHT     EAMBLft. 

a  life-time,  and  in  vain,  for  a  young  heart  so  pure  in  every 
loving  impulse,  so  thoroughly  virtuous  as  that  which  beat  with 
in  the  velvet  bodice  of  the  little  Gitana. 

"Aurora,  look  in  my  face,"  he  said,  seizing  both  her  hands 
as  she  ceased  speaking. 

She  did  look  in  his  face  with  a  glance  that  ought  to  have 
shamed  him — a  glance,  smiling,  fond,  and  yet  so  void  of  evil. 
He  might  have  searched  in  those  eyes  till  doomsday,  and 
found  nothing  there  but  a  beautiful  reflection  of  himself. 

"  Aurora,  you  have  repeated  these  heathenish  words  be 
fore  !" 

He  made  the  assertion  somewhat  faintly,  for  something  in 
her  look  half-smothered  the  suspicion  as  it  arose  to  his  lips. 

"  Before  !  when  ?"  she  answered,  in  smiling  surprise. 

"  To  Chaleco,  perhaps." 

"  To  Chaleco — oh,  never;  I  could  not  speak  thus  to  Chaleco," 
and  the  poor  girl  shuddered  at  the  sound  of  that  name,  as  an 
apostate  would  when  reminded  of  his  old  faith. 

"  But  your  chief,  this  Chaleco,  he  has  uttered  them  to 
you." 

"  He — where — at  what  time  ?" 

"  Here,  perhaps,  by  moonlight,  as  you  are  now  standing  by 
me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  troubled  and  questioning  eye. 
He  was  a  mystery  to  her  then,  and  the  child  was  striving  to 
fathom  the  new  feeling  that  she  saw  in  his  countenance. 

"No!  Chaleco  never  came  herewith  me  at  night — never 
at  all  since  we  were  little  children  !  Have  I  not  told  you  that 
he  is  my  betrothed  ?" 

She  spoke  sadly,  almost  in  tears. 

"  Well,  is  not  that  a  good  reason  why  he  of  all  others  should 
overwhelm  you  with  this  sweet  Rommany,  here  by  moonlight,  as 
you  now  stand  with  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  could  never  happen,"  she  exclaimed  eagerly, 
"  they  would  take  the  countship  from  him — they  would  drive 
us  both  ignominiously  from  the  tribe  ;  you  do  not  know  our 


THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE.  51 

ways,  our  laws.  Of  all  the  men  in  our  tribe,  Chaleco  would  not 
dare  to  seek  me  here." 

"  Why  1» 

11  It  is  not  permitted;  we  are  betrothed,  and  so  never  must  be 
alone;  it  would  be  infamy  V 

"  And  to  be  here  with  me,  is  that  nothing  ?" 

"  There  is  no  law  that  keeps  us  from  seeking  the  Busne.  It 
is  our  duty.  From  them  we  win  most  gold  1" 

The  young  man  recoiled. 

"  Gold,  is  it  for  that^ou  come  ?"  he  said  bitterly.  "  No,  no, 
I  have  offered  tenfold  what  she  has  ever  taken.  It  was  not  for 
that  you  came,  Aurora,  I  had  rather  die  than  think  it.  Speak, 
child,  tell  me  it  was  not  for  gold  that  you  sought  me  !" 

"  I  dared  not  go  home  empty-handed,  for  the  grandame 
would  have  given  me  blows,"  answered  -the  poor  girl,  while  tears 
began  to  run  down  her  cheeks.  "  I  could  not  dance  to  others 
as  in  former  times;  yet  I  never  touched  a  piece  of  your  coin 
without  feeling  aU  the  strength  leave  me — without  longing  to 
hide  myself  from  every  one.  Of  late  you  have  never  offered 
money  when  I  came." 

"  I  know — I  know,"  said  the  young  man,  quickly,  "  it  seemed 
like  a  desecration;  I  could  not  do  it." 

"  Oh,  how  happy  I  was  to  feel  this,  it  made  me  so  grateful, 
but  I  was  afraid  of  her.  Sometimes  I  would  be  for  hours  get 
ting  home,  in  hopes  that  she  would  be  asleep  ?" 

"  My  poor  child,  I  never  thought  of  this.  Is  the  old  Sibyl 
cruel  to  you,  then  ?" 

"  Every  one  is  cruel  to  me  now — every  one  but  you  ;  and  to 
night,  it  seems  sometimes,  as  if  you  were  joining  them.  What 
have  I  done  that  you  should  make  me  weep  like  the  rest  ?" 

"  Nothing,  my  poor  Aurora,  nothing.  The  fault  is  mine;  I 
was  annoyed  by  what  you  told  me  of  this  Chaleco  ;  it  made  me 
unreasonable." 

"  Was  that  all  ?"  cried  the  poor  little  gipsy,  brightening  up, 
and  pressing  her  lips  softly  down  into  the  palm  of  his  offered 
hand. 


52  THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  drew  her  gently  toward  him,  and 
for  a  time  they  stood  together  in  thoughtful  silence.  Their 
eyes  were  bent  on  the  same  object,  one  that  they  had  usually 
avoided;  for  there  was  little  promise  of  tranquillity  in  that 
direction. 

Amid  the  luxuriance  of  the  scene  before  them,  so  full  of  all 
that  might  reasonably  win  the  attention,  their  eyes  were  fasci 
nated  by  one  object  alone,  and  that  so  dreary,  so  uninviting,  that 
it  aroused  nothing  but  ideas  of  sin  and  wretchedness,  unhappy 
subjects  for  hearts  laden  as  theirs  were^with  the  first  sweet  im 
pulses  of  affection. 

They  were  looking  towards  the  Barranco,  that  raeak  ravine, 
cut  like  a  huge  wound  in  the  beautiful  hills,  on  whose  barren 
sides  the  gipsy  dwellings  were  burrowed.  Even  with  the  soft 
moonlight  sleeping  over  its  sterility,  the  ravine  had  a  miserable 
aspect,  choked  up  with  great,  spectre-like  aloes  and  coarse 
prickly-pears — with  a  few  dusty  fig  trees,  and  stunted  vines 
trailing  themselves  along  the  meagre  soil  that  just  served  to 
cover  them  with  a  sparse  growth  of  leaves. 

These  unseemly  objects  were  now  blended  into  one  mass  of 
blackness  in  the  depth  of  the  ravine,  giving  lurid  force  to 
some  dozen  forges  in  full  blast,  that  shot  their  weird  fires  from 
the  open  caves  above. 

This  was  no  unusual  thing.  The  gipsies  all  over  the  world 
have  been  workers  of  iron  from  the  beginning,  and  those  of 
Granada  were  ever  most  busy  at  their  craft  after  sunset.  But 
this  evening  the  fires  seemed  to  glow  with  unusual  brilliancy. 
Long  lines  of  light  shot  across  the  ravine.  Men  and  women 
moved  to  and  fro  before  the  open  caves.  It  was  a  scene  that 
Dante  would  have  loved. 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  the  Englishman,  musingly,  "  it  is  strange 
that  any  human  being  could  select  that  miserable  place  to  live 
in.  There  is  something  unearthly — fiendish  in  the  choice." 

"  Choice,"  answered  Aurora,  sadly,  "  whoever  allows  choice 
to  the  Zincali?  No,  no,  if  there  is  one  spot  on  earth  more 
dreary  than  another,  it  is  set  aside  for  them." 


THE     MIDNIGHT     KAMBLE.  53 

"  And  you,  Aurora,  so  delicate,  so  full  of  imagination,  how 
can  you  live  there,  burrowed  up  in  the  earth  like  some  beautiful 
wild  animal  ?  Surely,  surely  any  fate  must  be  better  than 
that  I" 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  earnestly.  His  words  had  not 
been  addressed  to  her,  but  were  an  argument  against  his  own 
conscience — a  reply  to  some  undercurrent  of  thought  all  the 
time  going  on  in  his  mind.  He  was  about  to  say  something 
more,  to  utter  the  thought  that  was  taking  form  in  his  own 
bosom,  but  she  looked  at  him  so  earnestly — her  large,  fond  eyes 
so  full  of  innocent  love-light  sought  his  with  so  sweet  a  trust — 
he  could  not  go  on.  The  holy  influence  of  true  affections  clung 
to  his  soul  like  fetters  of  gold.  The  evil  spirit  tempting  him  so 
powerfully  was  not  strong  enough  to  fling  them  off. 

Her  ignorance,  her  helplessness,  what  a  defence  it  proved 
against  all  his  knowledge — for  young  as  he  appeared,  the 
stranger  was  an  old  man  in  experience  1  He  had  begun  to  live 
early.  Youth  had  been  swept  from  his  path  as  if  by  a  tornado. 
The  wrong  that  he  might  do  then  could  have  none  of  the  ex 
cuses  which  inexperience  gives.  He  was  no  ordinary  person, 
but  had  lived  more  in  those  brief  years  than  many  an  old  man. 

She  saw  no  second  meaning  in  ^is  words,  but  turning  her  eyes 
once  more  upon  the  Barranco,  answered  according  to  her  own 
innocent  interpretation  of  their  import. 

"  It  does  seem  dark  to  me  now.  I  never  felt  it  till  lately, 
but  the  caves  are  very  dismal,  close,  smoky  ;  the  air  seems  to 
smother  me  at  night.  Besides,  I  am  afraid  it  is  only  in  the  old 
woods  yonder,  or  up  here,  lifted  half  way  into  the  sky,  that  I 
can  breathe  freely.  You  are  looking  at  the  ravine,"  she  added, 
"  and  I — now  I  can  feel  how  coarse,  how  dark,  how  like  a  den 
for  wild  animals  it  seems  to  you — for  within  the  last  few  weeks 
I  have  felt  a  strange  love  of  beautiful  things — for  with  them  I 
can  think  of  you." 

"  Then  you  never  think  of  me  in  connection  with  that  infer 
nal  hollow  yonder  ?"  questioned  the  young  man. 

"  What,  yonder  ?     Oh,  no,  within  the  darkness  that  was  once 


54:  THE     MIDNIGHT     RAMBLE. 

my  home,  surrounded  by  those  strong,  fierce  men,  grimed 
with- iron  dust,  and  smelling  of  the  mules  they  have  been  tend 
ing — I  fold  you  deep  in  my  heart,  afraid  to  turn  my  thoughts 
that  way — I  bury  you  in  my  sleep,  and  strive  not  to  exist  till  I 
can  escape  hither.  It  seems  like  two  worlds,  this,  where  you 
sometimes  come,  and  yonder  where  I  cannot  even  think  of 
you." 

"  But  here  you  are  happy  even  though  I  am  not  present." 

"  Ah,  yes,  here  I  am  free — here  I  have  such  dreams — oh,  a 
thousand  times  brighter  than  any  that  ever  come  to  my  sleep. 
Sometimes  I  think  these  soft,  sweet  dreams  are  better  than 
being  with  you." 

"  And  in  these  dreams  are  we  ever  separated  ?"  questioned 
the  youth,  pursuing  the  same  undercurrent  of  thought  that  had 
swept  through  his  bosom  all  that  evening.  But  she  did  not 
take  his  meaning  ;  the  time  for  reflection  had  not  arrived  ;  she 
was  too  busy  with  her  own  sensations  for  anything  but  dreams. 

"  Separated  !  oh,  no.  What  would  the  brightest  of  these 
dreams  be  worth  if  you  were  not  in  the  midst  ?  I  love  to  come 
up  here  just  before  nightfall,  when  the  snowy  top  of  Sierra 
Nevada  seems  sprinkled  with  roses,  and  a  soft  floating  haze, 
now  purple,  now  golden,  settles  upon  the  plain,  the  hills,  and 
the  beautiful  old  'city — when  the  insects  are  nestling  them 
selves  down  to  sleep,  and  the  nightingales  send  gushes  of  music 
through  the  woods.  How  I  love  to  sit  here,  perfectly '  alone, 
while  the  colors  float  together  in  soft  masses  on  the  walls 
around,  and  all  this  vast  heap  of  ruin  shapes  itself  into  beauty 
again. 

"  Then  all  that  is  ruinous,  all  that  is  gloomy  disappears  ;  the 
marble  pillars  glitter  with  gold  again,  a  network  of  snow  breaks 
over  these  paintings.  From  that  marble  slab  in  the  corner,  per 
forated  in  a  hundred  places,  floats  up  a  cloud  of  perfume.  I  feel 
it  in  my  garments,  and  penetrating  the  folds  of  my  hair.  I  go 
forth.  We  go  forth,  for  you  are  always  by  my  side.  The  long 
colonnade  yonder  glitters  in  the  twilight ;  the  filagree  arches  are 
tipped  with  a  rosy  hue.  The  shadows  are  all  of  a  faint  purple  ; 


THE     MIDNIGHT     KAMBLE.  55 

the  pavements  gleam  beneath  our  feet  like  beds  of  precious 
stones.  The  nightingales  are  heard  more  faintly  as  we  pene 
trate  deep  into  the  building,  overpowered  by  the  silvery  rush  of 
fountains  at  play  in  the  courts. 

"  The  myrtle  hedges  rustle  softly  as  we  pass  into  the  Court 
of  Lions.  There  in  my  dreams  I  replace  all  that  has  been  torn 
away  ;  the  hundred  slender  columns  that  support  those  filagree 
arches  are  once  more  burnished  with  gold.  The  old  tints  break 
out  afresh  from  the  capitals,  wreathing  their  endless  variety 
with  radiant  colors.  The  azulejo  pillars  glowing  like  twisted 
rainbows,  all  come  back  softened  by  a  mental  haze  that  creeps 
over  me  at  such  times. 

"We  leave  the  court — pass  on  through  those  wonderful 
arches,  and  enter  the  saloons  which  people  say  were  once  the 
most  private  retreat  of  the  Moorish  kings.  But  they  are 
never  in  my  mind — those  dead  mouarchs.  It  is  for  another — 
only  one — that  I  heap  those  alcoves  in  which  sultanas  have 
slept  with  silken  cushions,  and  mingle  cool  drinks  from  the 
snows  of  Alpujarras  ;  those  decorations  upon  the  wall,  so  like 
the  rare  antique  lace  with  which  queens  adorn  themselves — that 
saloon,  with  its  great  pillars  of  marble  gleaming  in  the  light 
like  solid  masses  of  pearl,  and  crowned  with  ornaments  so  rich, 
th#t  when  broken  to  pieces  each  fragment  is  a  marvel  of  itself. 
Even  these  are  not  beautiful  enough  for  one  whom  my  soul 
makes  lord  of  all ! 

"  For  him  I  bring  back  the  past.  Rare  colors  start  up, 
fresh  and  vivid,  from  under  that  exquisite  lace-work,  where  you 
can  just  see  that  they  have  existed.  Stalactites  starred  with 
gold  penetrate  downward  like  a  rich  conglomeration  of  pearls 
escaping  through  a  thousand  rainbows  embedded  in  the  ceiling. 
It  is  a  luxury  to  breathe  the  air  in  these  rooms,  so  rich  with 
perfumes,  yet  kept  so  pure  and  cool  by  the  innumerable  foun 
tains  that  penetrate  every  corner  with  their  dreamy  murmurs." 


56  FAIRY     SCENES 


CHAPTER    Y. 

FAIRY    SCENES    AND    FATAL   PASSIONS. 

MY  mother  paused.  She  had  talked  herself  out  of  breath  ; 
but  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  the  very  position  of  her  person  were 
eloquent  still.  She  had  spoken  rapidly  and  in  broken  sentences. 
Her  language  was  graphic,  and  more  like  an  inspiration  than  I 
can  give  it  in  cold  English.  Her  very  ignorance  gave  pictur 
esque  effect  to  her  fancies.  I  have  done  her  injustice,  because 
my  set  phrases  have  tamed  her  vigorous  wildness  with  conven 
tionalisms.  The  pictures  that  she  placed  before  the  wondering 
Englishman  in  her  own  wild  fashion  were  vivid  as  stars. 

She  was  silent  awhile,  and  he  could  see  the  bright  inspiration 
fading  from  her  features.  Her  eyes  drooped  ;  the  reserve, 
half  shame,  half  exhaustion  which  follows  the  inspired  moments 
of  genius,  crept  over  her.  She  dared  not  turn  her  eyes  upon 
the  young  man,  he  was  so  still,  and  she  thought  that  he  must 
be  smiling  derisively — strange  sensitiveness  for  one  of  her 
class — but  genius  is  of  no  class.  And  though  my  mother  was 
wild  and  untamed,  leaving  neither  poem,  painting,  or  statue 
behind,  her  entire  life  was  a  poem  unwritten  save  in  her  gentle 
ness  and  her  agony. 

"  Ah,  if  these  dreams  did  not  fade  so  soon,"  she  said,  at  last, 
in  a  timid  voice,  apologizing  for  her  late  abandonment,  "but 
they  last  scarcely  longer  than  the  sunset  which  brings  them. 
Do  these  sweet  thoughts  ever  haunt  you  ?"  she  continued,  still 
with  downcast  eyes. 

"  They  have  ! — yes,  they  have  !"  replied  the  young  man,  in 
a  voice  so  stirred  with  feeling  that  the  gipsy  started,  and  the 
blood  left  her  cheeks. 

"  And  did  they  die  thus  ?"  she  questioned. 


AND     FATAL     PASSIONS.  57 

"  Briefer,  shorter — my  dreams — but  why  talk  of  them  ?  We 
are  in  Spain,  alone — here  in  the  Alhambra — the  Alhambra  ! 
the  very  realm  of  fancies  !  Why  talk  of  dreams  that  I  may 
have  had  in  other  times,  other  lands  ?  Indulge  in  yours,  poor 
child,  this  is  the  place,  the  time.  Oh,  if  you  could  only  dream 
on  forever  ;  I  have  lost  the  power  1" 

"  Dream  on  forever  !"  cried  the  gipsy  girl,  lifting  her  eyes 
and  her  voice.  "What,  here,  and  with  that  in  view? — my 
dreams  here  !  my  life  there.  Here  all  is  life,  grace,  beauty, 
love  !  There,  burrowed  in  the  earth,  stifled,  struggling,  the 
miserable  Gitanilla — there  is  no  waking  from  that  I" 

Her  lithe  form  was  drawn  to  its  height.  She  pointed  with 
one  hand  toward  the  gloomy  Barranco,  and  with  the  other 
dashed  away  the  tears  that  sprang,  like  great  diamonds,  to  her 
eyes  ;  then  flinging  both  hands  into  the  air,  she  sunk  upon  the 
floor,  buried  her  face  in  the  crimson  folds  of  her  saya,  and 
broke  into  a  passion  of  sobs. 

The  young  man  looked  down  upon  her,  almost  calmly,  quite 
in  silence.  Those  who  have  suffered  much  naturally  shrink 
from  any  exhibition  of  strong  passions  ;  besides,  it  was  the  first 
evidence  of  the  fierce  spirit  of  her  race  that  he  had  witnessed. 
This  new  phase  in  her  character  astonished  and  repulsed  him. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seemed  to  him  absolutely  a 
Gitana.  So,  as  she  wept  out  her  bitter  passion,  he  stood  over 
her,  if  not  irritated,  at  least  painfully  thoughtful. 

"  Aurora,"  he  said  at  last,  stooping  toward  her  with  gentle 
coldness,  "get  up  ;  cease  weeping  thus.  It  annoys  me  ;  I  do 
not  love  you  so  well  1" 

She  started  up,  choked  back  the  sobs  that  were  swelling  in 
her  throat,  and  stood  before  him  with  downcast  eyes,  like  a 
culprit. 

This  self-power,  the  gentle  submission  that  followed,  reas 
sured  her  lover.  He  smiled  cordially  again,  took  her  hand, 
and  drew  her  gently  from  the  colonnade,  moving  downward 
partially  in  darkness,  till  they  reached  the  Court  of  Lions. 

The  Gitanilla  and  her  companion  entered  the  Court  of  Lions 

3* 


58  FAIKY    SCENES    AND    FATAL    PASSIONS. 

through  one  of  those  incomparable  pavilions  that  enrich  each 
end  of  that  marvellous  spot.  No  dream  could  be  more  hea 
venly  than  the  beauty  that  surrounded  them.  The  gorgeous- 
ness,  that  time  and  siege  had  swept  away,  was  more  than 
replaced  by  the  luminous  grace  shed  over  what  remained  by 
the  moonlight. 

On  either  hand  stood  a  line  of  shaft-like  columns,  delicate 
beyond  all  our  ideas  of  usefulness,  yet  with  a  superb  filagree 
peristyle  resting  lightly,  as  so  much  snow  upon  their  exquisite 
capitals — these  capitals,  so  full  of  varied  art,  each  fragment  of 
marble  a  marvel  of  itself — each  faded  leaf  the  richest  fancy  of 
an  artist.  The  arches  rising  between  these  graceful  pillars 
were  half  choked  up  with  shadows,  leaving  all  the  gorgeous 
apartments  to  which  they  led  in  misty  doubt.  It  seemed  as  if 
with  a  single  wave  of  the  hand  you  might  sweep  away  those 
curtain-like  shadows,  with  a  step  enter  the  saloons,  and  find  the 
moon  sleeping  upon  their  silken  cushions. 

It  chanced  that  the  Englishman  had  never  visited  the  Court 
of  Lions  before,  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full.  He  stood  within 
the  portico  spell-bound,  those  noble  masses  of  filagree  work, 
rising  up  from  the  supporting  pillars,  seemed  a  marvel  of  fairy 
work,  like  ocean  foam  frozen  into  shapes  of  beauty — the  pave 
ment  glittering  with  azulejos,  broad  golden  tints,  rich  blue  and 
red  prevailing — the  noble  Fountain  of  Lions,  rushing  in  floods  of 
crystal  over  its  great  alabaster  basin,  which  gleamed  through 
the  falling  torrent  like  a  solid  mass  of  ice  raining  itself  away, 
but  never  diminishing,  all  filled  him  with  wonder  and  delight. 
How  those  shining  water-drops  idealized  the  twelve  marble 
lions,  upon  whose  backs  the  alabaster  basin  rested,  flooding 
them  with  sheets  of  crystal,  wreathing  their  huge  legs  with 
pearly  froth,  sending  a  shower  of  bubbles  into  their  scaly  manes, 
eddying,  leaping,  whirling  around  them,  a  fantastic  storm  of 
light,  through  which  no  deformity  could  be  discovered  ! 

Nothing  but  the  rush  of  these  falling  waters  could  be  heard 
in  the  Alhambra.  Everything  else  was  still  as  death.  Oh,  it 
was  happiness  to  breathe  in  this  wilderness  of  beauty  !  After 


THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVEKS.  59 

all,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  intoxicated  with  mere  physi 
cal  harmony.  With  me  great  joy  always  rains  itself  away  in 
tears.  To  my  fancy,  no  person  ever  experienced-  perfect 
happiness,  who  has  not  felt  the  blissful  dew  leave  his  heart  in 
tears. 

But  to  know  this,  the  bitter  feelings  of  our  nature  must  not 
have  been  recently  disturbed.  Neither  the  Gitanilla  nor  her 
lover  were  sufficiently  tranquil  for  a  thorough  appreciation  of 
the  scene.  Their  thoughts  were  too  much  occupied  with  each 
other.  Still,  it  was  impossible  to  look  upon  this  wonder 
ful  spot  and  not  yield  themselves  up  to  it  for  a  time,  and  this 
had  a  softening  influence  upon  him.  She,  poor  thing,  required 
nothing  to  subdue  her,  for  there  is  not  a  being  on  earth  so 
gentle  as  a  high-spirited  woman  when  her  strong  passion  is  once 
surrendered — I  will  not  say  subdued — to  the  influence  of  the 
man  she  loves. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    SIBYL    AND    THE    LOVERS. 

THERE  had  been  no  absolute  disagreement  between  Aurora 
and  her  lover;  yet  with  that  keen  intuition  which  belongs  to 
love,  and  which  becomes  almost  superhuman  when  love  blends 
with  genius  in  a  woman's  heart,  she  felt  that  he  was  disturbed, 
that  she  had  done  something  to  arouse  painful  thoughts,  which 
led  him,  for  the  time,  away  from  her.  She  did  not  weep — he 
had  told  her  that  grief  annoyed  him — but  in  the  shadow  of  that 
beautiful  portico  her  little  heart  might  heave,  unnoticed,  be 
neath  its  velvet  bodice,  and,  spite  of  herself,  tears  would  swell 
up  into  her  great,  mournful  eyes. 

"You   seem  weary,   little  one,"  he   said  at  length,   taking 


60  THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVEKB. 

heed  of  her  drooping  attitude.  "  Let  us  find  a  place  to  sit 
down.  I  also  begin  to  feel  tired;  we  have  been  wandering  in 
the  ruins  these  three  hours  1" 

He  moved  on,  and  she  kept  by  his  side,  with  her  face  averted, 
that  he  might  not  see  her  tears.  They  crossed  an  angle  of  the 
court,  and  entering  one  of  the  arches,  passed  through  an  open 
door  into  the  Sala  de  los  Abencerrages.  The  marble  basin  of  a 
fountain,  now  dry,  occupied  the  centre  of  this  room,  and  upon 
its  rounded  edge  the  two  seated  themselves. 

Here  the  moonbeams  came  more  faintly,  penetrating  the  open 
work  cloister,  and  throwing  fantastic  shadows  on  the  pave 
ment.  Beautiful  stalactites  hung  over  them,  peering  down 
ward,  as  it  were,  from  a  bed  of  shadows.  Portions  of  the 
walls  were  dim.  The  rest  gleamed  out,  with  all  their  delicate 
tracery  revealed,  like  luminous  frost-work,  such  as  you,  of  a 
colder  climate,  find  upon  your  window-panes,  when  the  morn 
ings  are  unusually  cold. 

They  had  been  sitting  there  some  minutes,  yet  I  do  not  think 
they  had  spoken.  His  arm  was  around  her,  and  it  is  impos 
sible  that  he  should  not  have  felt  the  swelling  of  her  heart,  for, 
as  I  have  said,  it  was  flooded  with  a  tender  grief,  brought  on 
by  that  hard,  hard  thing  to  bear,  the  first  reproof  from  beloved 
lips.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  feelings,  'but  not  one  to  utter 
those  feelings  much  in  words.  A  degree  of  proud  reserve  fol 
lowed  him  even  in  his  moments  of  deepest  tenderness. 

No  man  ever  guessed  half  that  was  going  on  in  his  heart, 
and  what  is  stranger  still,  no  woman  ever  knew  the  whole. 
There  might  have  been  something  of  pride  in  his  sensations 
when  he  saw  the  entire  control  that  he  had  gained  over  that 
poor,  wild  heart.  For  what  human  being  is  above  pride  in  that 
conquest  which  sweeps  the  entire  life  of  another  into  his  bosom  ? 
But  he  was  touched  also  with  a  feeling  of  sadness,  of  regret  for 
Having  moodily  reproved  her  for  what  was,  after  all,  the  spirit 
of  her  race.  Still  he  did  not  speak  these  regrets,  but  drew  her 
closer  to  him,  and  taking  her  little  brown  hand  in  his,  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 


THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVEK8.  61 

He  felt  her  heart  leap  against  his  arm,  but  she  only  crept 
a  little  closer  to  him,  trembling  all  over,  and  smiling  through 
her  tears. 

"  And  do  you  indeed  love  me  so  much  ?"  he  said,  with  a  tone 
of  sadness  in  his  voice,  for  he  was  asking  himself  where  must 
all  this  end;  and  the  answer  that  presented  itself  made  his  bet 
ter  nature  recoil. 

She  drew  his  hand  toward  her,  and  pressed  her  lips  upon 
the  palm.  There  was  something  peculiar  and  child-like  in  this 
act.  With  all  her  unreserve,  it  was  the  only  outward  proof 
that  she  had  ever  given  him  of  the  passion  that  was  transfigur 
ing  her  whole  nature. 

While  her  lips  were  still  upon  his  palm,  he  felt  her  start,  lis 
ten,  and  shudder  all  over.  Then  clinging  to  his  arm  with  one 
haud,  she  turned  her  head  and  looked  backward  over  her  shoul 
der.  It  was  in  this  chamber  that  the  Abencerrages  were  sup- 
.posed  to  have  been  beheaded,  and  a  deep,  broad  stain,  which 
tradition  marks  out  as  their  blood,  discolors  half  the  marble 
fountain  on  which  the  lovers  sat.  Feeling  her  shudder,  and 
remarking  that  her  head  was  turned  that  way,  he  supposed  that 
it  must  be  this  blood  shadow  which  suddenly  occupied  her 
thoughts. 

"  Nay,  how  childish,"  he  was  beginning  to  say;  but  she  broke 
from  his  arm,  rushed  by  the  fountain,  and  seizing  hold  of  a  slen 
der  pillar  at  the  opening  of  an  alcove,  all  in  shadow,  as  if 
stricken  by  some  sudden  fear,  stood  peering  into  the  recess. 

He  arose  and  was  going  toward  her,  when  a  little  object, 
scarcely  larger  than  a  child  of  ten  years  old,  and  so  thin  that  it 
seemed  but  the  shadow  of  something  else,  passed  slowly  by  him. 
He  would  not  have  believed  it  human,  but  for  the  snake-like 
glitter  of  two  eyes  that  gleamed  their  rage  upon  him,  and  gave 
vitality  to  the  shadow  as  it  passed. 

Aurora  still  clung  to  the  column,  waving  to  and  fro  as  if  s^e 
must  have  fallen  but  for  that  support.  She  turned  her  face  to 
his  as  he  came  up,  but  the  pallor  that  lay  upon  it,  the  fear  that 


62  THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVEK8. 

quivered  over  limb  and  feature,  had  utterly  changed  her.     He 
would  not  have  known  the  face  again. 

"  Aurora,  what  is  this  ?  What  terrible  thing  has  happened?" 
he  exclaimed,  reaching  forth  his  arm  to  support  her.  But  she 
shrank  away,  shuddering,  and  still  clinging  to  the  pillar,  she 
writhed  herself  behind  it,  whispering  hoarsely, 

"  It  is  niy  grandmother  ;  she  has  heard  us  1" 

The  Englishman  was  enough  affected  by  this  to  hasten  into 
the  court,  and  satisfy  himself  that  the  person  who  had  passed 
him  was  indeed  Aurora's  grandmother.  He  saw  her  gliding 
away  through  the  shadowy  side  of  the  cloisters,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  muttered  wrath  and  shrill  curses  were  blended  with 
the  silvery  rush  of  the  fountain. 

The  sound  struck  him  with  strange  terror.  Still  ignorant  of 
the  exact  danger  that  might  threaten  him  or  the  poor  Gitanilla, 
he  could  not  account  for  the  cold  thrill  that  passed  through  his 
frame  as  the  curses  pierced  to  his  ear  through  the  sweet  fall  of 
those  waters. 

He  went  back  into  the  Sala  de  los  Alencerrages,  and  found 
my  mother  crouching  down  by  the  marble  basin,  with  her  wild 
eyes  turned  toward  the  entrance. 

•  "  Was  it  she  ?     Did  she  speak  ?"  whispered  the  poor  child, 
rising  with  difficulty  and  moving  toward  him. 

The  young  man  was  shocked  by  this  wild  terror,  so  dispro- 
portioned,  as  he  thought,  to  the  cause.  He  took  both  her  hands 
in  his  and  shook  them  gently,  hoping  thus  to  arouse  her  from 
the  trance  of  fear  that  seemed  to  have  benumbed  the  very  life 
in. her  veins. 

"  Sit  down  by  me,  Aurora — sit  down,  child,  here  in  your  old 
place,  and  tell  me  what  all  this  means." 

He  spoke  with  gentle  authority,  and  without  a  shadow  of  the 
terror  that  shook  every  limb  of  her  body.  The  sound  of  his 
clear,  bold  voice  seemed  to  reassure  her.  She  crept  forward 
with  timid  hesitation,  and*  allowed  him  to  place  her  by  his 
side. 

"Now  tell  me,  child,  what  troubles  you  thus?     If  that  vi- 


THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVERS.  63 

cious  shadow  was  indeed  your  grandmother,  she  has  gone  away 
quietly  enough,  no  harm  has  come  of  it." 

"  You  little  know,"  said  the  Gitanilla,  still  keeping  her  eyes 
upon  the  entrance — "  you  little  know  our  people,  or  her." 

"  But  what  is  there  for  me  to  learn  ?  Tell  me  what  this  fear 
means  ?" 

"  It  means,"  answered  the  poor  thing,  locking  her  hands  hard 
and  pressing  them  down  upon  her  trembling  knees — "  it  means 
that  they  will  poison  me." 

"  Poison  you  !  this  is  the  madness  of  fear,"  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  impatiently. 

"  Or  perhaps  stone  me  to  death  in  some  dark  hollow  of  the 
mountains,  the  whole  tribe  hunting  down  one  poor  creature  for 
her  love  of  the  Busne,  Chaleco  among  the  first." 

•'Aurora,  are  you  mad?  Has  this  miserable  little  witch 
crazed  you  ?" 

"  You  will  not  believe  me — you  have  not  seen  the  poison  drao 
scattered  into  the  wholesome  food  which  an  enemy  is  to  eat — or 
a  poor  girl  strangled  in  her  bed,  and  buried  in  some  rude  pass 
of  the  mountains,  on  the  very  day  when  she  was  to  have  danced 
at  her  own  wedding  festival." 

"  But  this  is  murder  !"  cried  the  young  man.  "  The  laws 
of  Spain  will  not  permit  men  to  kill  their  females  in  cold 
blood." 

"  Our  laws  are  older  than  those  of  Spain,"  answered  the 
Gitanilla,  with  a  certain  degree  of  pride  in  her  tone,  as  if  she 
gloried  in  the  antiquity  of  the  very  custom  that  was  to  crush 
her.  "  Our  laws  are  older  and  better  kept  than  those  of  the 
Busne;  traditions  do  not  run  so  far  back  as  their  origin.  They 
are  fixed  and  unchangeable — he  who  breaks  them  dies  1" 

"  But  what  have  you  done,  innocent  child,  that  these  laws, 
however  strengthened  by  antiquity,  should  fall  on  you  ?" 

"  I  love  you,  a  Busne — one  of  the  race  we  hold  accursed — 
our  enemies — our  oppressors.  I  am  alone  with  you,  and  have 
been  for  hours,  here  in  these  vast  ruins.  But  that  is  nothing  ; 
that  they  approve  so  long  as  it  brings  gold  ;  but  I  love  you ! 


64  THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVEKS. 

I  have  said  it  in  words,  in  my  looks,  every  way  in  which  love 
can  speak  when  it  burdens  the  heart  with  its  sweet  joy.  She, 
niy  weird  grandame,  has  seen  this.  Did  I  not  feel  that  she 
was  close  by  in  the  ambassador's  hall  ?" 

"But  they  dare  not  kill  you  for  that — for  the  innocent 
affection  which  you  could  not  help — affection  that  has  dreamed 
of  no  wrong." 

"  She  has  seen  us  here,  sitting  together  ;  she  has  heard  me, 
heard  you.  They  will  believe  me  an  outcast  of  the  tribe,  and 
kill  me  as  they  would  a  viper  I" 

The  young  man  arose,  walked  out  into  the  court,  and  began 
to  pace  up  and  down  the  glittering  pavement,  hurriedly,  as 
one  seeks  rapid  motion  when  some  great  mental  or  moral 
struggle  is  going  on  in  the  mind.  Gradually  his  steps  became 
more  rapid;  his  brow  flushed,  and  with  an  impetuous  move 
ment  of  one  hand,  as  if  thus  dashing  aside  all  further  consider 
ation  of  a  harassing  subject,  he  sought  the  Gitanilla  again. 

"Aurora,"  he  said,  in  a  hurried  manner,  "you  shall. never 
go  back  into  that  nest  of  fiends — look  up,  child — you  are  mine 
now.  They  shall  not  touch  a  hair  of  your  head,  or  even  look 
upon  your  face  again  !  Come,  what  have  you  to  fear  ?  I  am 
powerful — I  am  rich,  and  I  love  you.  I  struggle  against  it 
no  longer — it  is  a  duty  now,  I  love  you  !  Go  with  me  to  my 
own  country — I  cannot  give  you  this  sky  or  these  fairy  ruins, 
but  you  shall  be  surrounded  with  beautiful  things  nevertheless. 
You  shall  study,  learn  ;  forget  that  miserable  ravine  burrowed 
with  human  fox-holes,  and  swarming  with  murderers.  Come, 
Aurora,  look  up,  I  long  to  see  that  cold,  dead  color  swept 
away.  Smile,  smile  my  bird,  we  will  not  part  again." 

When  a  nation  has  but  one  virtue,  how  powerful  that  one* 
must  be.     There  is  much  good  in  every  human  heart  that  God 
has  created,  and  when  all  that  good  pours  itself  into  a  single 
channel,  it  has  a  power  and  vitality. which  men  of  more  diffuse 
cultivation  little  dream  of. 

Aurora  knew  nothing  of  her  lover's  rank,  of  his  wealth,  or 
the  thousand  barriers  that  lay  between  his  condition  and  hers. 


THE     SIBYL     AND     THE     LOVERS.  65 

She  was  aware  that  sometimes,  when  a  Gitano  becomes  wealthy 
— a  rare  case — he  had  been  known  to  wed  a  Busne  wife,  but 
that  such  unions  invariably  made  the  Gitano  an  object  of 
suspicion  and  dislike  to  his  own  people.  If  this  privilege 
were  permitted  to  the  men,  it  might  be — she  could  not  tell, 
no  case  had  ever  come  beneath  her  observation — extended 
to  the  females  also.  But  then  a  betrothed  female  like  herself 
— the  promised  wife  of  a  count — how  was  this  to  be  hoped  ? 
All  these  thoughts,  full  of  doubt  and  trouble,  came  upon 
my  poor  mother  while  the  Englishman  stood  impatiently — for 
his  restrained  manner  had  entirely  disappeared — waiting  her 
reply. 

"  They  would  not  let  me  go — I  am  betrothed.  No  one  of 
our  females  have  ever  married  with  the  Busne,"  she  said,  at 
last,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  the  utter  despondency  that  pos 
sessed  her. 

The  young  man  started,  and  a  flush  swept  over  his  forehead. 
At  first  he  found  it  difficult  to  speak.  How  very,  very  hard 
it  is  for  a  man,  whose  impulses  are  all  honorable,  to  express 
a  wrong  wish  in  words  !  But  after  a  brief  struggle  he  became 
cold  and  grave.  She  must  understand  his  full  meaning.  He 
would  not  deceive — would  not  even  persuade  her.  If  she  went 
with  him  it  .must  be  with  a  full  knowlege  of  her  position,  of 
the  impossibility  that  any  marriage  could  ever  exist  between 
them. 

Some  men  would  have  glossed  this  over,  covered  it  with 
transcendental  poetry,  smothered  the  sin  with  rose-leaves.  He 
did  nothing  of  the  kind.  Knowing  the  wrong,  he  would  neither 
conceal  this  conviction  from  himself  nor  her.  Therefore  it  was 
that,  with  a  cold,  almost  severe  conciseness,  he  explained  him 
self.  True,  there  was  little  merit  in  this  ;  it  was  rather  a 
peace  offering  to  his  own  pride  than  a  homage  to  truth.  From 
all  that  he  had  heard  of  the  gipsies,  he  did  not  believe  that 
anything  he  was  saying  could  make  much  difference  to  the 
Gitanilla.  But  it  was  due  to  himself,  and  so  he  spoke  plainly. 

She  understood  him  at  last.     It  was  with  great  difficulty, 


00  WAITING     FOE     VENGEANCE. 

for  the  idea  entered  her  mind  as  a  proposition  of  murder  would 
have  done.  It  dawned  upon  her  by  degrees,  arousing  and 
kindling  the  wild  Gitana  blood  in  her  veins  with  every  new 
thought.  She  heard  him  through,  not  without  attempting 
to  speak,  but  the  effort  seemed  strangling  her.  He  saw  that 
she  writhed  faintly,  once  or  twice,  but  heeded  it  not  and 
went  on. 

At  length  she  sprang  up,  her  cheeks  in  a  dusky  blaze,  her 
eyes  full  of  lightning.  Her  little  tawny  hand  was  clenched 
like  a  vice  and  stamping  her  foot  upon  the  pavement,  she 
struggled  for  voice.  It  broke  out  at  last,  loud  and  ringing, 
like  the  cry  of  an  angry  bird, 

"I  am  a  Gitana — a  Gitana.  Did  you  take  me  for  a  Busiie  ?" 
Before  he  could  answer,  or  had  half  recovered  from  the 
surprise  into  which  this  storm  of  passion  threw  him,  she  had 
gone.  He  saw  her  dart  into  the  cloister,  and  caught  one 
glimpse  of  a  shadow  that  seemed  to  leap  across  the  court,  but 
even  that  had  disappeared  before  he  could  reach  the  broad 
moonlight. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

WAITING     FOR     VENGEANCE. 

CLARE  stood  in  the  Court  of  Lions,  absolutely  bewildered  by 
the  suddenness  of  what  had  happened.  As  he  listened  the 
sound  of  a  footstep,  heavier  than  the  one  he  sought — but  of 
this  he  did  not  think  at  the  time — reached  him  from  the  lower 
end  of  the  court.  He  moved  hurriedly  in  that  direction,  and 
just  as  he  reached  the  azulejo  pillars,  that  still  retain  their  first 
beauty  in  that  portion  of  the  ruin,  a  man  came  toward  him, 
but  keeping  behind  the  columns  with  a  sort  of  cowardly  fero 
city,  like  one  who  was  seeking  an  opportunity  to  strike  in  the 
dark. 


WAITING     FOR     VENGEANCE.  67 

The  Englishman  paused.  There  was  something  in  the  ap. 
pearance  of  this  man,  closely  as  he  kept  to  the  shadows,  which 
reminded  him  of  an  unpleasant  adventure  that  he  had  met  on 
his  route  to  Granada.  The  idea  was  enough.  He  darted  for 
ward  and  stood  face  to  face  with  the  leader  of  a  prowling  band 
of  gipsies  who  had  robbed  him,  not  two  months  before,  on  his 
way  from  Seville. 

The  man  seemed  to  recognize  him  also.  At  first  he  slunk 
away  as  if  with  a  hope  of  concealment,  but  a  slight  jingle  of  the 
numerous  silver  tags  on  his  jacket,  and  a  stealthy  movement  of 
the  right  arm  downward,  while  his  eyes  followed  the  English 
man  like  a  basilisk,  were  significant  of  some  more  vicious 
intent. 

Slowly,  and  as  a  weary  man  might  _chauge  his  position,  the 
gipsy  drew  up  his  figure,  and  a  gleam  of  moonlight  shooting 
through  the  net-work  of  an  arch  close  by,  fell  upon  the  blade 
of  a  Manchegan  knife  which  he  held  with  a  backward  thrust  of 
the  arm,  slowly  raising  the  point  to  a  level  with  the  heart  he 
wished  to  reach. 

Few  strangers  are  mad  enough  to  go  unarmed  in  Spain, 
The  Englishman  was  bold  as  a  lion  too,  but  with  all  this  he 
could  not  have  drawn  the  pistol  from  his  bosom  before  that 
knife  had  done  its  work.  Still  he  made  the  effort,  keeping  his 
eyes  steadily  on  the  man,  and  with  something  of  the  effect  which 
such  looks  have  upon  fierce  animals.  But  the  point  of  that 
murderous  blade  rose  higher  and  higher.  In  another  moment 
it  would  have  been  sped  ;  but  on  the  instant  a  sharp  clutch 
was  laid  on  the  assassin's  arm,  and  the  gipsy  Sibyl  thrust  her 
self  between  the  combatants. 

"  Back,  Chaleco — begone,  I  say.  How  dare  you  step  in 
between  me  and  my  right  ?  Think  you  Papita  wants  your 
knife  to  help  her  ?"  cried  the  fierce  old  witch,  grinding  her 
sharp  teeth  together  at  each  pause  of  her  speech. 

"  But  the  wrong  is  mine,"  answered  Chaleco  fiercely.  "Au 
rora  was  my  betrothed :  let  her  die — let  her  die  ;  but  he,  I 
will  send  him  before  1" 


68  WAITING     FOE     VENGEANCE. 

He  struggled  with  the  old  woman  who  had  clutched  the 
knife  with  her  tawny  fingers  and  clung  to  him,  hissing  out  her 
wrath  in  his  face  like  a  wild  cat. 

"Die  !  who  says  Aurora  shall  die  ?  Is  she  not  mine,  the 
grand-daughter  of  a  count  ?  Who  shall  condemn  her  but  my 
self  ?  When  I  have  said  she  is  guilty,  then  you  may  talk  of 
wrong — not  before.  Go  home.  How  dare  you  follow  my 
grand-daughter  when  she  goes  about  her  work  1" 

But  the  gipsy  shook  her  off,  wrenching  the  knife  from  her 
clutch  with  a  violence  that  flung  her  to  the  ground. 

She  started  fiercely  up.  The  red  turban  had  fallen  from  her 
grey  hairs,  and  they  streamed  around  her  like  a  torn  banner 
that  has  once  been  white.  Her  eyes  gleamed  and  flashed  with 
lurid  fire.  She  flung  up  her  long,  flail-like  arms,  and  shrieked 
forth  curses  that  seemed  absolutely  to  blast  the  air  around  like 
a  simoon.  She  spoke  in  Rommany,  but  the  curses  that  came 
seething  from  her  heart  were  more  horrible  to  the  Englishman, 
than  if  he  had  understood  the  words.  They  cowed  even  the 
gipsy  chief.  He  gave  up  his  knife  abjectly,  and  casting  a  fierce, 
sullen  look  on  the  Englishman,  slunk  away. 

This  sullen  submission  appeased  the  Sibyl's  fury.  She  fol 
lowed  him  into  the  darkest  portion  of  the  cloister,  and  seemed 
to  drop  suddenly  down  from  threats  to  expostulations,  which 
ended  at  last  in  low,  wheedling  tones,  which  gradually  died 
away  in  the  melody  of  the  fountain. 

The  Englishman  looked  around  like  one  in  a  dream.  Not 
fifteen  minutes  had  elapsed  since  he  sat  in  the  Sala  de  los  Aben- 
eerrages,  with  the  Gitanilla  so  close  to  him  that  he  could  hear 
every  full  throb  of  her  heart.  Had  she  gone  forever  ?  That 
storm  of  fiendish  passion  which  he  had  just  witnessed,  was  it 
real  ?  How  still,  how  deliciously  tranquil  was  the  Alhambra  ! 
Had  that  soft  moonlight  looked  but  a  moment  since  on  the 
assassin's  knife  close  to  nis  own  heart  ?  It  seemed  an  impos 
sibility.  He  could  not  realize  the  terrible  danger  which  even 
yet  threatened  him. 

It  was  long  before  he  could,  by  all  the  efforts  of  his  strong 


WAITING     FOR     VENGEANCE.  69 

will,  bring  his  thoughts  under  any  degree  of  control.  But  he 
did  not  leave  the  place,  for  the_  first  reasonable  reflection 
aroused  the  keenest  anxiety  for  the  Gitanilla.  Her  fears  of 
death  were  not  all  fancies  then.  He  remembered  the  old 
Sibyl's  words  ;  she  had  only  claimed  the  right  of  vengeance  as 
her  own.  The  proof  which  he  held  in  his  own  person,  was 
enough  to  convince  him  that  no  laws  could  prevent  crime  in  a 
people  to  whom  most  crimes  are  held  as  virtues.  Had  he  not 
been  plundered  of  property,  and  saved  from  death  almost  by  a 
miracle,  in  spite  of  the  Spanish  laws  ? 

His  anxiety  regarding  the  poor  gipsy  girl  became  torment 
ing.  Where  could  he  seek  her  ?  Not  at  the  ravine  ;  surely 
she  would  not  go  there,  knowing  the  fiendish  inhabitants  so 
well,  and  fearing  all  that  she  feared.  The  storm  of  her  passion 
had  been  so  violent  it  could  not  last.  The  poor  child  to  save 
her  own  life  must  come  back  again.  He  would  wait. 

He  did  wait,  hour  after  hour,  till  the  moon  went  down,  and 
nothing  but  the  bright,  holy  stars  kept  watch  over  the  Alham- 
bra.  He  traversed  the  saloons,  explored  the  cloisters,  and 
leaving  all  that  was  beautiful  behind  him,  wandered  off  among 
those  dark  red  towers  -that  harmonized  better  with  the  gloomy 
fears  that  possessed  him. 

Still  he  continued  the  search,  clambering  up  those  broken 
walls,  tramping  his  way  over  wild  flowers  and  weeds  alike — 
called  to  a  distance,  sometimes,  by  the  rustle  of  a  bird,  and 
mocked  every  instant  by  shadows  that  proved  unreal  as  his 
hopes.  But  he  would  not  believe  that  Aurora  had  left  the 
ruins.  Besides,  rest  was  impossible.  Alone  in  the  little  fonda 
he  must  have  gone  mad  with  anxiety. 

Twenty  times  that  night  did  he  pass  hurriedly  through  the 
Gate  of  Justice,  hoping  to  find  her  returning  from  the  woods. 
He  searched  the  whole  uneven  sweep  of  those  walls,  clambering 
up  the  declivities,  and  finding  relief  in  the  physical  exertion 
which  covered  his  forehead  and  saturated  his  hair  with  mois 
ture. 

When  the  first  rosy  light  of  morning  quivered  on  the  snows 


70  THE     BROKEN     IDOL. 

of  Alpujarras,  he  returned  to  the  little  fonda  so  weary,  so  hope 
lessly  dejected  that  he  could  hardly  stand.  His  fate  day  had 
come  round  again. 


CHAPTER  Yin. 

THE, BROKEN     IDOL. 

ANY  person  who  had  seen  that  old  gipsy  Sibyl  tearing  her 
way  up  the  steep  ascent  of  the  Barranca  that  night,  must  have 
fancied  some  evil  spirit  had  broken  loose,  and  was  searching  for 
prey  among  the  gaunt  aloes  and  ragged  prickly  pears.  The 
sharp  hiss  with  which  she  rent  her  garments  from  the  har 
rowing  thorns — the  fiendish  energy  with  which  she  broke  away 
from  each  fresh  grasp,  betrayed  a  state  of  tormenting  wrath 
which  Dante  alone  could  describe.  There  was  a  force  in  this 
bitterness,  a  concentration  of  gall  that  imbued  her  withered 
frame  through  and  through  with  frightful  power.  Her  aged 
limbs  quivered  with  new  life — she  walked  upright,  flung  aside  her 
stick,  and,  grasping  the  thorny  plants  firmly  with  her  hands, 
drew  herself  up  the  hill.  The  sharp  leaves  cut  her  like  a  knife, 
tore  her  hands  and  drew  long  purple  lines  down  her  lean  arms; 
but  no  blood  followed.  Her  veins  seemed  withered  up,  or 
barely  moistened  by  the  gall  that  fed  them  with  bitter  vitality. 

The  ravine  was  choked  up  with  darkness  ;  the  fires  were  all 
out,  and  the  caves  closed.  Not  a  sparkle  of  the  Darro  could 
be  seen  through  the  black  mist  that  lay  below;  and  the  soft 
winds  that  scattered  fragrance  from  a  wilderness  of  blossoms  on 
the  Sierra  del  Sol,  whose  palace  was  crowned  by  a  few  rays  of 
light  from  the  dusky  moon,  only  served  to  stir  the  stifling  dust, 
through  which  the  fierce  old  Sibyl  waded  ankle  deep. 

With  all  her  toil,  the  old  woman  held  fast  to  her  crimson 
skirt,  which  she  gathered  up  in  front  and  hugged  to  her  bosom 


THE     BROKEN     IDOL.  71 

attempting  thus  to  keep  a  firm  grasp  on  a  mass  of  freshly  gath 
ered  herbs,  which  protruded  from  its  folds,  scattering  a  fragrant 
odor  upon  the  dusty  air,  as  she  crushed  them  tighter  and  tighter 
in  her  ascent  up  the  hill. 

At  length  she  reached  the  door  of  her  own  cave  and  entered. 
The  lamp  which  she  had  left  burning  in  its  niche  was  pouring 
forth  a  volume  of  mingled  flame  and  smoke,  and  a  few  embers 
glowed  still  among  the  white  ashes  tha^  lay  in  heaps  under  the 
brasier.  A  rustle  of  garments,  a  faint,  shuddering  shriek  came 
from  a  dark  angle  of  the  cave  as  the  door  was  flung  open.  The 
old  Sibyl  did  not  seem  to  heed  it ;  but  turned  her  eyes  that  way 
with  a  look  of  blank  ferocity,  and  moved  on  without  appearing 
to  regard  my  poor  mother  who  sat  cowering  on  the  ground,  her 
limbs  gathered  up  beneath  the  gorgeous  masses  of  her  dress,  and 
her  great  gleaming  eyes  following  each  movement  of  the  crone 
with  a  scared  and  shrinking  gaze,  like  those  of  an  animal  which 
feels  itself  bound  for  the  slaughter. 

As  if  unconscious  that  any  living  thing  occupied  the  misera 
ble  dwelling  with  herself,  the  old  woman  shook  the  herbs  from 
her  garments,  crouched  down  by  the  brasier,  and,  bending  her 
crooked  fingers  like  the  claws  of  a  bird,  began  to  rake  the  scat 
tered  embers  in  a  heap  from  the  ashes,  blowing  them  fiercely 
with  her  lips  till  her  face  was  lighted  up  by  the  glow  like  that 
of  a  fiend.  Half  stifled  with  the  smoke,  she  began  to  strangle, 
and  her  cough  sounded  through  the  cave  like  the  bark  of  a  dog. 
Still  she  would  not  leave  her  work,  but  sat  down  on  the  floor, 
straightened  a  fold  of  her  dusty  saya  between  her  hands,  and 
commenced  blowing  up  the  embers,  till  her  breath  came  back 
again. 

As  the  liquid  in  the  bronze  vase  began  to  simmer,  she  gath 
ered  up  the  loose  herbs,  and  after  twisting  them  into  fragments 
with  a  ferocity  that  sent  their  juice  trickling  through  her  fingers, 
she  cast  them  into  the  vase.  Sometimes,  when  the  stems  were 
tough,  she  employed  her  sharp  teeth,  wrangling  with  the  poison 
ous  fibres  like  a  wild  cat  over  its  prey. 

This  was  a  fearful  proof  of  the  insane  wrath  that  possessed 


72  THE     BROKEN     IDOL. 

her,  for  she  knew  well  the  deadly  nature  of  those  herbs,  yet 
remained  insensible  of  the  danger,  even  after  her  thin  lips  were 
swollen  and  turgid  with  the  poison. 

My  poor  mother,  who  had  cowered  in  her  corner  watching  all 
this,  could  endure  the  sight  no  longer  ;  but  rising  slowly  up, 
crept  to  her  little  bed-room  and  softly  closed  the  door.  The 
old  woman  eyed  her  with  a  sidelong  glance  as  she  crept  by,  but 
preserved  silence  and  occupied  herself  with  her  fire. 

Thus  an  hour  passed*  Huge  drops  of  perspiration  stood  on 
the  forehead  of  my  great  grandame,  for  the  cave  was  becoming 
insufferably  warm,  and  she  still  bent  over  her  work,  imbibing 
the  steam  and  heat  with  the  endurance  of  a  salamander.  At 
last  she  lifted  the  vase  from  its  supporter,  and  placing  a  broken 
bowl  upon  the  floor,  drained  off  perhaps  half  a  pint  of  dark  liquid. 
This  she  held  up  to  the  lamp  and  examined  closely.  A  gleam 
of  horrid  satisfaction  was  visible  on  her  face,  and  she  muttered, 

"  They  think  of  distilling  the  drao — who  gave  them  the 
secret  ?  Let  them  boast — let  them  fancy  that  the  old  woman 
is  of  no  further  use.  They  must  come  to  her  for  their  poison 
yet.  Who  else  of  all  the  tribe  knows  the  secret,  or  could  dis 
til  death  into  one  sweet  drop  like  this  ?" 

She  bent  over  the  bowl;  her  head  drooped.  For  the  first 
time  she  appeared  to  think  steadily,  and  mingle  her  thoughts 
with  something  of  human  feeling. 

The  fire  went  out.  Heavy  smoke,  for  which  there  was  no 
outlet,  gathered  in  a  cloud  of  palpable  darkness  over  her  head. 
The  poison  stood  cooling  by  her  side,  imbued  by  a  thick,  inky 
blackness,  taken,  as  it  were,  from  her  thought;  yet,  for  the  first 
time  that  night,  there  was  something  of  human  feeling  mingled 
with  the  bitterness  of  her  nature.  It  might  have  been  the  pale, 
frightened  face  of  my  mother,  as  she  glided  by,  that  awoke  a 
gleam  of  womanly  regret  in  her  fierce  bosom.  It  might  have 
been  the  memory  of  some  foregone  event  which  this  poor  child 
had  shared  with  her;  or  the  sobs  that  began  to  issue  from  the 
little  bed-room,  like  the  stifled  moan  of  an  infant,  might  have 
softened  the  iron  of  her  nature. 


THE     BROKEN     IDOL.  73 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  which  of  the  thousand  strings 
in  that  sered  heart  thrilled  to  the  touch  of  the  guardian  angel 
that  always,  while  there  is  life,  finds  some  tone  of  music  in  a 
woman's  soul.  But  one  thing  is  certain,  the  lurid  fire  in  those 
wicked  eyes  grew  dull,  and  was  smothered  as  they  watched  the 
poison  drao  curdle  and  cool  beneath  them. 

And  there  was  my  wretched  mother,  all  this  time  shut  up  in 
the  little  stifled  hole  that  she  called  a  bed-room.  Up  to  this 
time,  a  sort  of  wild  excitement  had  kept  her  up.  Indignation, 
terror,  a  conflict  of  feelings,  which  in  her  return  from  the  Al- 
hambra  had  given  her  the  speed  and  strength  of  a  reindeer,  still 
burned  in  her  heart  like  fire.  But  the  stillness  of  the  cave — 
the  slow,  silent  preparations  which  that  old  woman  was  making 
for  her  death — all  hao^  a  power  to  chill  even  her  burning  ex 
citement.  The  heart  in  her  bosom  seemed  turning  to  stone. 
Her  limbs  began  to  shrink  and  quiver  with  physical  dread.  She 
was  but  a  woman,  poor  thing,  nay,  a  child  almost,  and  death 
was  terrible  to  her,  for  the  Spanish  Gipsy  has  no  bright  dream 
of  an.  after-life.  They  who  suffer  so  much  in  this  world  have 
no  hope  in  death,  but  that  of  black  oblivion.  Why  should  they 
wish  to  prolong  misery  so  griping  ?  Would  they  not  be  pro 
scribed,  crushed,  trampled  on  through  all  eternity  ?  Would 
the  Busne  grant  them  a  place  in  heaven,  they  who  have  hunted 
our  whole  race  up  and  down,  till  it -has  been  glad  to  find  shelter 
like  serpents  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  earth  ? 

My  mother  was  afraid  to  die.  The  torture  that  she  then 
endured  seemed  preferable  to  that  black,  stony,  eternal  sleep, 
which  the  end  of  life  was  to  her. 

In  her  bed-room  was  a  mutilated  fragment  of  black  marble. 
It  was,  or  had  been,  the  body  of  a  beast  joined  to  a  human 
head.  Though  worn  with  time,  hacked  and  broken,  the  grave, 
thoughtful  beauty  of  that  countenance,  the  solemn  thought  that 
seemed  frozen  into  the  stone,  imbuing  every  fragment,  must 
have  won  attention  even  from  a  person  who  looked  upon  it  only 
as  an  antique  of  wonderful  beauty. 

This  fragment  of  Egyptian  art  stood  upon  the  base  of  a 


74  THE     BEOKEN     IDOL. 

Roman  pedestal,  which  the  old  Sibyl  had  found  years  before 
among  the  broken  rubbish  of  the  Alhambra.  It  was  of  a  time 
coeval  with  the  Roman  altar,  which  you  may  yet  find  embedded 
in  the  Torre  del  Homenage,  and  had  a  value  to  the  antiquarian 
of  which  my  great  grandame  was  fully  aware.  Though  she 
would  have  sold  anything  for  money,  this  had  been  an  offering 
to  her  idol;  and  she,  almost  alone  among  our  people,  still  kept 
a  traditionary  hold  upon  the  faith  of  Egypt.  How  she  became 
possessed  of  this  antique  I  never  knew ;  but  it  was  the  only  thing 
on  earth  which  she  held  sacred,  and  to  that  she  rendered  idol 
atrous  devotion. 

As  my  mother  sat  upon  her  pallet  bed,  feeling  the  unnatural 
strength  ebb  from  her  frame,  her  eyes  fell  upon  this  marble 
face,  turned  with  its  grand  serenity  of  expression  toward  her. 
All  at  once  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  found  a  friend.  She  remem 
bered  the  old  Sibyl's  faith  in  this  block  of  stone,  and  gazed 
upon  it  with  strange  interest.  The  tumult  of  her  feelings  was 
hushed.  The  natural  yearning,  which  exists  in  every  female 
heart,  for  something  to  adore,  something  strong  and  high,  from 
which  she  can  claim  protection,  possessed  her.  She  folded  her 
hands  in  her  lap  and  leaned  forward,  gazing  on  the  marble  face 
till  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Directly  she  began  to  sob  like 
a  child,  and  this  was  the  sound  that  reached  the  old  woman  as 
she  bent  over  her  drao.  • 

But  that  hard  old  heart  soon  shook  off  its  human  emotions. 
Brutus  was  not  more  stern  in  his  sense  of  justice,  nor  did  he 
show  less  of  relenting;  the  laws  of  her  people  must  be  carried 
out.  She  would  yield  the  power  of  life  or  death  over  her 
grandchild  to  no  inferior  member  of  her  tribe ;  she  alone  would 
be  judge  and  executioner.  Perhaps  there  was  something  of 
mercy  in  this;  the  death  she  gave  with  her  drao  was  easy, 
almost  delightful;  a  sleepy,  "voluptuous  languor  seized  upon  the 
victim,  grew  sweeter,  deeper,  and  eternal. 

Such  was  the  fate  meditated  for  the  poor  girl  who  was  sob 
bing  in  the  next  room.  The  tribe  would  have  stoned  her  to 
death.  That  old  Sibyl  had  a  touch  of  compassion  in  her  mur- 


THE     BROKEN     IDOL.  75 

derous  designs,  but  she  was  not  the  less  determined  to  kill.  She 
took  up  the  drao  and  set  it  in  the  same  niche  with  the  swaling 
lamp.  Then  she  passed  into  the-bed  room  softly  as  a  cat,  clos 
ing  the  door  after  her  with  great  caution,  as  if  they  two  had 
not  been  quite  alone. 

The  poor  Gitanilla  sat,  upon  her  miserable  pallet,  looking 
wistfully  toward  that  antique  relic  of  old  Egypt  ;  but  she 
cowered  down  with  a  faint  cry,  as  the  old  woman  crept  between 
her  and  the  marble,  lifting  up  one  hand  as  if  denouncing  her 
for  looking  upon  a  thing  that  she  held  in  reverence.  What 
passed  in  that  miserable  little  room  I  cannot  say.  My  motner 
never  spoke  of  it  ;  and  in  her  manuscript  there  wste  nothing 
when  it  came  to  this  part  of  her  story,  but  great  inky  scrawls 
that  no  one  on  earth  could  read. 

When  the  old  Sibyl  came  forth  Aurora  was  upon  the  ground, 
her  forehead  resting  against  the  idol,  and  murmuring  some 
wild  words  through  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Kepeat,"  said  the  Sibyl,  standing  over  her,  and  holding  up 
the  heavy  iron  lamp  that  flared  lividly  over  the  mutilated  fea 
tures  of  the  marble  and  the  wild  face  of  the  Gitanilla.  "  Say 
it  again,  thus  with  your  face  where  it  is.  If  there  is  a  lie  on 
your  lips- that  stone  will  sear  them  as  with  a  red  hot  iron." 

"Oh,  grandame,  I  have  spoken  truth,  nothing  but  truth. 
See  I"  and  with  a  sort  of  insane  awe  she  pressed  her  lips  upon 
the  broken  mouth  of  the  idol  two  or  three  times. 

The  old  woman  was  silent.  The  lamp  shook  in  her  hand  ; 
her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  idol  and  the  poor  creature  that 
clung  to  it,  as  if  she  really  expected  to  see  that  healthy  form 
fall  crisped  and  withered  away  from  the  stone. 

The  girl  turned,  clasped  her  grandame  around  the  knees, 
and  lifting  up  her  eyes,  in  which  was  a  gleam  of  wild  confi 
dence,  exclaimed  : 

"  I  am  unhurt — I  am  unhurt — grandame,  will  you  believe 
me  now  ?" 

Still  the  old  woman  was  silent. 

"  Grandame,  mother  of  my  mother,  you  will  not  let  me  die  1" 


76  THE     BROKEN     IDOL. 

Terror  and  doubt  again  took  possession  of  the  poor  thing. 
She  clung  closer  to  the  old  woman,  her  eyes  dusky  with  fear  ; 
her  lips  growing  pale  again. 

"  Chaleco  must  have  your  life — he  will  not  believe  you  ;  no, 
nor  will  the  women  of  our  tribe  !" 

"  But  you  believe  me,  grandame  !" 

"  And  if  I  do,  what  then  ?" 

"  You  have  great  power,  grandame  ;  our  people  acknowledge 
it  ;  the  stars  make  you  their  mistress.  You  will  save  me  from 
Chaleco — from  our  fierce  women  " 

"  How,  little  one,  how  ?  I  am  old,  they  would  wrest  you 
from  my  arms.  They  treat  me  like  an  infant  already." 

"  Let  us  leave  them  and  seek  the  mountains,  you  and  I, 
grandame.  They  will  not  follow  us  up  into  the  snow  peaks  1" 

"  To-night  I  have  clambered  up  to  the  Alhambra.  It  is  the 
first  time  in  ten  years  ;  to-morrow  my  bones  will  be  as  stiff  as 
rusted  iron.  How  am  I  to  drag  myself  up  to  the  mountains  ? 
How  am  I,  a  count's  wife,  to  leave  his  people  ?" 

"I  am  a  count's  daughter,  but  they  wish  to  kill  me  !" 
answered  the  poor  girl,  sadly.  "  You  will  not  let  them — say, 
grandame,  that  you  will  save  me  from  the  Valley  of  Stones  1" 

"  They  are  many  and  strong — I  an  old  woman,  feeble  with 
years  !" 

"  They  will  stone  me — oh,  they  will  stone  me  !  and  I  am 
innocent  of  all  they  think  against  me  I"  still  pleaded  the 
Gitanilla. 

The  old  woman  was  evidently  troubled.  She  shook  her 
head,  and  cast  wistful  glances  on  her  broken  idol,  as  if  interro 
gating  the  stone. 

"  Let  me  go  by  myself,  then,"  cried  the  girl,  eagerly.  "  I 
am  told  that  countries  stretch  far  away  beyond  the  mountains. 
There  they  will  not  know  that  I  am  an  outcast,  and  my  danc 
ing  will  get  bread  enough  to  eat." 

The  old  woman  did  not  heed  her  ;  she  was  still  interrogating 
the  Egyptian  stone.  Quick  flashes  of  intelligence  shot  across 
her  face  ;  some  project  was  evidently  taking  form  in  her  brain. 


THE     BROKEN     IDOL.  77 

"  He  will  not  believe  me — Chaleco  will  be  first  among  them 
with  his  story.  I  have  no  power  to  brave  the  laws,  but  I  can 
baffle  them.  Leave  old  Papita  alone  for  that." 

Now  she  seemed  all  alive  with  eager  cunning,  turning  from 
the  force  of  her  bitter  wrath  into  a  crafty  old  crone,  anxious  to 
save  the  life  of  her  grandchild,  it  is  true,  but  exulting  as  much 
in  the  thoughts  of  baffling  all  the  keen  hate  and  power  of  her 
tribe. 

"  Get  up,  little  one :  come  sit  down  here  on  the  bed  by  my 
side,  and  let  us  talk,"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  over  the  head 
of  my  mother,  and  caressing  her  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  You  believe  me  innocent — you  will  not  let  them  murder 
me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  star,  I  know  you  are  innocent — else,  you  see 
the  drao  yonder — by  this  time  it  had  been  curdling  in  your 
blood." 

"  Then  you  will  save  me  !  Who  is  so  powerful  ?  Oh, 
grandame,  your  little  girl  will  yet  live.  Who  shall  dare  to 
contradict  the  will  of  Papita  ?" 

"  He,  Chaleco  I  ha  1  ha  1  he  almost  braved  me  to-night:  but 
he  shall  be  brought  round  " 

The  girl  turned  faint,  and  grew  paler  than  she  had  been 
before  that  night. 

"  No,  not  that ! — oh,  not  that !  Let  me  die,  grandmother — 
let  me  die.  I  would  rather  a  thousand  times  than  marry 
Chaleco." 

The  Sibyl  laughed  till  her  teeth  shone  again. 

"  Marry  Chaleco  now  ! — why,  child,  he  would  strangle  me  if  I 
but  hinted  it !  Oh,  our  people  are  wise  in  this  generation, 
wiser  than  old  Papita.  We  shall  see — we  shall  see  I" 

"  What  shall  I  do,  grandame  ?  What  can  you  think  of  to 
save  me  ?  They  will  tear  me  to  pieces." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ? — why,  take  my  right  as  a  count's 
widow — murder  you  myself — bury  you  myself  !" 

"  Grandame  !"  exclaimed  the  child,  with  a  cry  of  horror. 

"  And  when  they  think  your  body  deep  in  the  Darro,"  con- 


V8  THE     BROKEN     IDOL. 

tinned  the  old  crone,  without  noticing  the  cry,  "  Papita  will  be 
sitting  here  with  gold  in  her  lap,  and  her  pretty  little  Aurora 
shall  be  married  to  the  Busne,  and  far  beyond  the  mountains  1" 

Another  cry,  in  which  the  love  of  that  young  heart  leaped 
forth  in  an  agony  of  joy,  made  the  Sibyl  pause  ;  but  it  was 
only  for  a  moment. 

"  Then  my  little  one  shall  think  of  the  poor  old  gipsy  in  her 
cave,  and  send  more  gold — more  and  more,  till  power  shall 
indeed  return  to  Papita." 

But  my  mother  sat  upon  the.  pallet  wringing  her  hands,  and 
utterly  abandoned  to  her  grief  once  more.  That  one  gleam  of 
joy  had  turned  upon  her  heart  sharper  than-  a  sword.  She 
remembered  why  she  had  fled  from  the  Alhambra  that  night. 

"  What  is  this  ?".  said  the  old  woman,  sharply.  "  Tears 
again  ?  Bah,  I  am  tired  of  them — speak  1" 

"  Graudame,"  sobbed  the  wretched  girl,  gasping  for  breath, 
for  she  felt  that  her  last  hold  on  life  was  going,  "  the  Busne 
cannot  save  me — he  will  not  marry  a  gipsy  girl." 

"  He  shall  1"  snarled  the  old  woman.  "  By  that  he  shall  I" 
and  she  pointed  toward  her  idol. 

"  Grandame  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  astonished. 

"  Get  up,"  replied  the  Sibyl — "  smooth  that  hair — put  on  the 
bodice  of  blue  velvet,  and  the  saya  edged  with  gold,  that  was 
to  have  been  the  wedding-dress  with  Chaleco.  Quick,  or  the 
daylight  will  be  upon  us." 


-• 


WAITING     AND     FEARING.  79 


CHAPTER     IX. 

WAITING    AND     FEARING A    WILDERNESS     OF     BEAUTY. 

AURORA  obeyed  her  grandmother  almost  hopefully  ;  for  her 
faith  in  the  Sibyl  was  unbounded.  In  a  little  time  she  appeared 
in  the  outer  cave,  arranged  in  the  picturesque  costume  which 
should  have  been  her  wedding-garments.  The  old  woman  had 
been  pouring  a  quantity  of  the  poison  drao  into  a  vial,  which 
she  thrust  into  her  bosom  as  the  girl  came  in. 

"  Why  do  you  take  that  ?"  she  faltered  out,  struck  with  new 
dread. 

"It  is  for  him — the  Busne,  if  he  falters  in  doing  what  I 
shall  ask." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  my  mother,  sadly,  pointing  toward  the  bowl. 
"  There  will  be  enough  left — I  will  go  with  him"- 

"  You  must,"  answered  the  Sibyl,  sharply.     "  Now  come." 

They  left  the  cave,  closing  the  door  after  them. 

"  Stay,"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  going  back,  "  you  will 
want  food  and  drink." 

She  was  gone  a  little  time,  and  returned  with  a  'bottle  of 
water  and  some  bread.  These  she  handed  to  Aurora  and 
walked  on,  moving  down  the  ravine  toward  the  Alhambra. 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  strength  excitement  had  given 
to  that  old  crone  ;  she  scarcely  seemed  to  feel  the  great  fatigue 
of  the  night,  but  with  a  quick,  scrambling  walk  led  the  way  in 
silence,  only  calling  back  now  and  then  for  Aurora  to  move 
faster,  or  the  day  would  be  upon  them. 

They  entered  the  enclosure  of  the  Alhambra  by  La  Torre  del 
Pico,  and  kept  within  the  shadows,  for,  though  the  moon  was 


80  WAITING     AND     FEARING. 

down,  it  leaves  a  transparent  atmosphere  behind  it  in  Granada; 
and  once  or  twice  the  Sibyl  fancied  that  she  heard  footsteps 
amid  the  ruins. 

Near  La  Torre  del  Pico  stood,  at  that  time,  the  grand 
mosque  of  the  Alhambra,  the  most  exquisite  remnant  of  Moor 
ish  art  in  the  world.  An  entrance  to  this  mosque  was  easy,  for 
sacred  as  it  had  been,  all  its  rich  beauty  lay  exposed  to  ruin 
like  the  rest. 

Papita  led  the  way,  holding  my  mother  by  the  hand.  A  dim 
light  fell  amid  the  delicate  pillars  innumerable  as  the  young 
trees  in  a  forest,  but  guided  by  far-off  memories,  the  Sibyl 
threaded  them  confidently  as  if  she  had  been  walking  through 
her  own  barranca.  She  paused  before  that  portion  of  the 
mosque  formerly  the  seat  occupied  by  the  Moorish  Kings  in 
their  worship.  Here,  by  the  gleam  of  azulejos,  richer  and  far 
more  brilliant  than  any  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  Spain,  and 
which  even  the  darkness  could  not  subdue,  she  found  the  Mih- 
rab  or  recess  in  which  the  Alcoran  had  been  kept. 

It  was  a  deep  vaulted  recess  set  thick  with  azulejos,  that 
burned  like  gems  on  a  bed  of  gold.  The  floor  was  a  single  slab 
of  agate  ;  and  a  belt  of  precious  stones  had  spanned  the  arch 
like  a  petrified  rainbow.  It  was  broken  and  partly  defaced 
now,  but  the  very  fragments  were  a  marvel  of  beauty. 

Another  might  have  looked  with  reverence  on  a  spot  so 
enriched,  that  it  might  be  worthy  to  hold  the  treasure  kept 
most  sacred  by  a  fallen  nation.  But  to  the  old  gipsy  woman 
such  feelings  and  such  things  were  a  scoff. 

"  Hide  yourself  in  there,"  she  said,  thrusting  Aurora  toward 
the  niche.  "  You  will  be  driven  out  by  no  Moors  coming  to 
worship  ;  sit  still  if  any  one  enters  the  mosque,  or  if  steps 
turn  this  way,  stand  up  close  to  one  of  the  porphyry  pillars 
yonder,  moving  so  that  it  will  be  placed  between  you  and  the 
intruder  whichever  way  he  comes." 

"  But  where  do  you  go  ?  How  long  must  I  wait  ?"  said 
Aurora,  placing  her  foot  on  the  glittering  pavement  of  the 
Mih-rab. 


A     WILDERNESS     OF     BEAUTY.  81 

"I  go  to  find  him,"  was  the  terse  answer.  "Wait  till  he. 
comes,  or  till  I  come.  You  have  food  :  be  patient,  and  on 
your  life,  let  none  of  the  tribe  find  you  1" 

Aurora  shrunk  back  into  the  recesses  at  this  command,  and 
stood  there  motionless  as  stone  till  daylight  glittered  upon 
the  azulejos  around  her,  and  she  was  shrined,  as  it  were,  in  a 
mass  of  living  gems. 

At  length  the  terror  that  had  kept  her  so  motionless  gave 
way.  She  changed  her  position  ;  sat  down,  began  counting 
the  exquisite  fragments  that  jewelled  the  wall,  tracing  the 
delicate  lines  of  gold  and  silver  that  crept  like  glittering  moss 
around  them,  with  the  tip  of  her  fingers.  At  last,  emboldened 
by  the  silence,  she  stepped  down  from  the  recess,  and  wandered 
restlessly  around  the  body  of  the  mosque. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  causes  for  anxiety  that  beset  her, 
and  though  she  had  been  in  that  spot  before,  she  wandered 
through  its  gorgeous  mazes  with  a  strange  and  delicious  swell 
of  the  heart.  Love,  the  g-reat  magician,  had  unsealed  her 
eyes  to  the  beautiful.  -Never  before  had  she  distinguished 
the  grand  and  varied  richness  of  those  columns.  The  deep, 
many-tinted  greens  engroined  in  the  verd-antique,  jasper  of 
that  rare  kind  which  seems  clouded  with  blood,  grew  beautiful 
in  her  eyes.  She  saw  pillars  of  oriental  alabaster  rising  among 
the  forest  of  columns,  like  snow  mellowed  to  golden  richness 
by  a  meridian  sun  ;  and  others  with  sweeping  clouds  of  the 
deepest  ruby  tint,  stained  into  a  ground  of  dusky  yellow. 
These  mingled  with  columns  of  glittering  black,  or  sheeted 
from  floor  to  arch  with  gold,  contrasted  gorgeously  with  the 
snow-white  shafts  that  rose  on  every  hand  ;  some  with  capitals, 
dashed  lightly  with  gold  ;  others  cut,  as  it  were,  from  solid 
pearl,  and  all  made  precious  with  the  most  perfect  sculpture. 

Filled,  as  I  have  said,  with  a  new-born  sense  of  the  Beau- 
ful,  my  mother  wandered  through  all  this  Byzantine  gorgeous- 
ness,  amazed  that  she  had  never  seen  it  before.  With  no 
knowledge  of  architecture,  she  felt  without  understanding  the 
beautiful  proportions  of  the  building,  while  her  eyes  were  fixed 

4* 


82  WAITING     AND     FEAKING. 

upon  its  pillars  supporting  arches  graceful  as  the  bend  of  a 
rainbow,  and  enriched  with  a  beauty  hitherto  unknown  even 
to  Moorish  art. 

Her  heart  was  numb  for  the  time,  and  she  wandered  on  like 
one  in  a  dream — now  looking  upon  the  pavement,  then  lifting 
her  eyes  upward  where  traceries  of  snow,  delicate  as  a  spider's 
web,  but  yet  of  a  pearly  richness,  linked  with  blossoms  of 
silver,  ran  through  the  arches,  chaining  the  pillars  together 
with  a  gleaming  network.  The  doors,  the  royal  seat,  every 
thing  around  was  one  blaze  of  rich  mosaic — the  pavement 
of  white  marble,  starred  with  gorgeous  tiles,  spread  away 
beneath  her  feet.  Broken,  soiled  by  neglect,  in  ruins,  as  all 
this  was,  perhaps  it  seemed  but  the  more  enchanting  for  that ! 
for  to  a  keen  imagination  these  fragments  of  beauty  were  sug 
gestive  of  an  ideal  perfection,  which  no  art  ever  reached. 
But  my  mother  could  not  long  be  won  from  the  great  causes 
of  anxiety  that  surrounded  her.  Her  heart  began  to  ache 
again,  and  with  a  weary  step  she  sought  the  Mih-ral,  and  seat 
ing  herself  on  the  agate  floor,  sat  pondering  over  her  own 
miserable  thoughts  till  the  sun  went  down. 

With  strained  eyes  and  a  weary  heart,  she  saw  the  rich  light 
fade  away  from  the  pillars  till  the  arches  were  choked  up  with 
blackness,  and  all  the  slender  columns  seemed  like  spectres 
crowding  toward  her  hiding-place.  She  grew  feverish  with 
anxiety  ;  her  lips  were  parched  ;  a  faintness  crept  through 
her  frame.  It  was  not  hunger,  but  she  was  exhausted,  and 
remembering  the  food  her  grandame  had  left,  felt  for  it  in  the 
darkness. 

She  drank  of  the  water,  and  tasted  a  mouthful  of  bread  ; 
but  it  was  suspense,  not  want  of  food,  that  had  taken  away 
her  strength.  She  could  not  endure  to  look  out  from  her 
hiding-place,  for  now  that  crowd  of  pillars  seemed  like  men 
of  her  tribe,  all  greedy  and  athirst  for  her  young  life. 

Thus  she  remained;  it  might  be  hours  or  minutes  ;  it  seemed 
an  eternity  to  her,  and  then  she  heard  footsteps  and  a  voice. 


THE    COURIER    AND    HIS    WILD    VISITOR.       83 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE    COURIER   AND    HIS    WILD    VISITOR. 

AT  a  back  door  of  the  little  Fonde,  which  stands  within  the 
enclosures  of  the  Alhambra,  sat  a  little  old  man,  or  if  not  abso 
lutely  old,  so  withered  and  shrunk  up  that  it  was  impossible,  at 
a  little  distance,  not  to  think  him  aged.  But  at  a  close  view 
you  saw,  by  the  sharp  black  eyes,  the  thin,  but  unwrinkled 
lips,  and  a  certain  elasticity  of  movement,  that  he  had  scarcely 
passed  the  'middle  age  of  life.  A  coat  of  drab  cloth,  with 
short-clothes  of  the  same  material,  a  plush  waistcoat,  knee 
and  shoe-buckles  of  gold,  and  silk  stockings,  at  once  swept 
away  all  idea  of  his  being  a  native  of  Granada,  and  to  an  ex 
perienced  eye  proclaimed  him  the  retainer  of  some  old  English 
family.  Besides  all  this,  there  was  an  air  of  rather  peculiar 
nicety  in  his  apparel.  His  cravat  was  richly  ruffled  with  lace, 
and  flowed  down  ostentatiously  over  the  waistcoat.  His  wrist 
bands  were  of  the  same  costly  material,  with  here  and  there  a 
slight  fray  or  break,  which  gave  suspicion  of  some  previous  and 
more  exalted  ownership. 

He  sat  upon  a  little  wooden  bench,  with  the  branches  of  a 
fine  mulberry  tree  bending  over  and  protecting  him  from  the 
rising  sun.  Brushes  and  blacking  lay  near  one  end  of  the 
bench,  and  on  a  drooping  branch  of  the  mulberry  tree  hung  a 
gentleman's  coat  nicely  brushed  and  left  to  the  air. 

From  the  spotless  purity  of  his  dress,  you  would  have  be 
lieved  it  impossible  that  this  dainty-looking  servant  could  have 
been  performing  the  menial  services  which  these  objects  would 
indicate;  but  at  the  very  instant  we  present  him  to  our  readers, 
Turner  had  his  left  hand  thrust  up  to  the  sole  of  a  delicately 


84:  THECOUKIEKAND 

shaped  boot,  and  with  the  lightest  and  most  graceful  touch 
imaginable,  was  polishing  it.  Now  and  then  he  paused,  looked 
at  himself  in  the  glittering  surface,  and  fell  to  work  again,  not 
quite  satisfied  that  the  beloved  image  was  thrown  back  with 
sufficient  distinctness.  He  did  not  sing  at  his  work.  Turner 
took  everything  quite  too  seriously  for  that ;  still  he  kept  up  a 
faint,  broken  hum  to  the  sound  of  his  brush  when  in  motion  ; 
but  sometimes  paused  all  at  once,  and  fell  into  a  reverie,  hold 
ing  the  brush  and  boot  in  his  hands,  as  if  not  entirely  pleased 
with  his  ruminations. 

At  length  the  boot  that  he  had  been  polishing  seemed  to  be 
susceptible  of  no  further  brilliancy,  and  after  holding  it  up  to 
the  sun  and  eyeing  it  with  great  satisfaction,  he  set  it  down, 
muttering,  "  Now  for  the  other  1"  He  drew  out  from  beneath 
his  bench  the  tattered  and  soiled  mate,,  and  held  it  up  with 
a  disgustful  shake  of  the  head.  "  Alhambra  dust — I'll  swear 
to  it — one,  two,  three — bah,  it's  no  use  counting.  Every  night 

up  there "  Here  he  began  to  scatter  the  dust  from  his 

master's  boots  with  angry  vehemence. 

"  In  search  of  the  picturesque — fond  of  ruins — who  believes 
it,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  One  man  don't,  I'm  sure  of  that, 
and  his  name  is  Turner,  Thomas  Turner,  of  Greenhurst,  but 
perhaps  his  opinion  don't  amount  to  much;  we  shall  see  !" 

Here  Turner  worked  on,  pressing  his  thin  lips  hard,  and 
dashing  away  at  the  boot  as  if  it  had  offended  him  mortally. 

"Out  all  night — the  whole  entire  night — comes  home  at 
break  of  day,  and  steals  through  old  Turner's  room  like  a  thief. 
Thought  the  old  man  asleep,  as  if  Turner  ever  slept  when  things 
are  going  wrong  with  the  boy." 

Here  the  old  man  grew  languid  in  his  movements;  his  eyes 
took  a  sadder  expression,  and  his  touch  upon  the  boot  was  like 
a  caress. 

"  Fear,  why  who  knows  what  won't  come  over  him  with 
these  doings  ?  His  coat  soaked  with  dew  and  stuck  full  of 
briars;  his  hair  dripping  with  perspiration — everything  at  sixes 
and  sevens;  and  instead  of  sleeping  when  he  does  get  home, 


HIS      WILD     VISITOR.  85 

rolling  about  on  his  bed  and  trying  to  cheat  the  old  man;  lets 
him  take  away  his  clothes  without  saying  a  word;  makes  believe 
he's  asleep,  as  if  I  didn't  see  that  forehead  working  as  it  always 
does  when  things  go  wrong  with  him.  He  thinks  to  cheat  old 
Turner— fudge  I" 

As  the  old  man  ceased,  more  and  more  earnest,  his  applica 
tion  to  the  boot  became  exciting  enough;  his  elbow  went  to  and 
fro  like  the  play  of  a  crank ;  his  thin  lips  were  gathered  up  into 
a  knot,  and  he  looked  sternly  around  upon  the  coat  and  mul 
berry  tree,  as  if  challenging  them  to  mortal  combat. 

That  moment  the  little  impish  figure  of  an  old  woman,  with 
a  red  kerchief  twisted  over  her  mummy-like  forehead,  and  a 
faded  dress  of  the  same  color,  came  suddenly  round  a  corner  of 
the  Fonde,  and  stood  eyeing  him  with  a  glance  sharp  and 
vigilant,  like  that  of  a  rattlesnake  at  rest. 

Turner  gave  her  a  sidelong  look  over  the  instep  of  his  boot 
as  he  held  it  -up  for  inspection,  but  the  weird  sharpness  of  her 
glance  was  too  much,  even  for  his  immovable  sangfroid.  His 
eyes  sunk,  and  he  began  to  gather  up  the  brushes  as  if  in  pre 
paration  for  a  retreat. 

The  old  woman  came  close  up  and  addressed  him  in  Spanish. 
He  understood  the  language  well  enough,  but  either  from  cun 
ning,  or  that  inveterate  hatred  of  everything  French  or  Spanish 
which  we  often  find  among  English  travelling  servants,  con 
tinued  gathering  up  his  property  as  if  he  did  not  comprehend  a 
word. 

After  uttering  a  few  sentences,  half  cajoling,  half  imperative, 
the  woman  turned  away,  muttering  discontentedly  between  her 
teeth,  and  was  about  entering  the  back  door. 

"  Halloo,  where  are  you  going  now  ?"  cried  old  Turner, 
satisfied  that  silence  would  no  longer  answer  his  purpose. 
"Where  are  you  going,  old  witch?  not  into  my  lord's  room, 
surely  !" 

This  was  spoken  in  very  respectable  Spanish,  though  with  a 
sort  of  rude  snappishness  that  mingled  his  hatred  of  the  language 
with  every  syllable. 


86  THE     COURIER     AND 

"So  you  can  speak,"  answered  the  woman,  with  an  oath, 
that  springs  to  a  gipsy's  lips  naturally  as  flame  leaps  from 
burning  wood. 

"  Yes,  I  can  speak  your  lingo  when  I  choose  to  demean 
myself  particularly,  and  that  isn't  often,"  replied  Turner,  with 
considerable  vexation,  that  he  had  unwarily  been  drawn  into 
speaking  the  hated  language.  "But  what  do  you  want,  old 
beauty  ?  Nothing  of  my  lord,  or  old  Turner,  I  hope  ?" 

"  I  want  the  Busne." 

"The  what?"  cried  Turner,  looking  toward  the  door,  and 
kicking  the  brushes  on  one  side. 

"  The  Busne." 

"  And  who  on  earth  is  that,  my  precious  old  nettle  ?" 

The  old  woman  answered  by  a  gesture  of  sharp  impatience, 
and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Stop  that,"  cried  Turner,  placing  himself  on  the  narrow 
threshold,  and  brandishing  the  glossy  boot  with  one  hand. 
"No  one  passes  in  here  till  I  know  what  his  business  is. 
Speak  up  now,  my  precious  old  beauty.  What's  your  name  ? 
Who  do  you  want  ?  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  coming 
here  at  all  ?" 

The  old  woman  stood  on  the  threshold  alone,  eyeing  him 
keenly,  and  glancing  now  and  then  with  the  cunning  of  her 
race  on  each  side  of  his  person,  to  measure  the  possibility  of 
passing  him,  But  Turner  was  equally  vigilant,  and  manfully 
kept  his  post,  boot  in  hand. 

"  Better  come  to  terms  at  once  :  no  one  gets  through  here 
without  giving  a  passport,  I  can  tell  you  that,"  said  Turner, 
"  Is  it  me  you  come  after  ?" 

"You!"  sneered  the  old  woman,  and  her  thin  lip  curled 
upward,  revealing  the  sharp,  hound-like  teeth  beneath.  "  You  !" 

"And  why  not,  she-wolf?  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  of 
woman-kind  that  has  run  after  the  gentleman  before  you." 

"  I  want  the  young  gentlemen — the  Busne  who  lodges  here. 
Let  me  go  by,  for  I  will  see  him  !" 

"  Easy,  easy,"  persisted  Turner,  giving  a  semi-circular  sweep 


HIS     WILD     VISITOR.  87 

with  his  boot.  "There  is  but  one  lodger  here,  and  that  is  my 
lord.  You  can't  see  him,  because  he  is  in  bed." 

"  No  matter  :  he  must  get  up  then  !" 

"  Must  get  up! — now  I  like  that — my  master  will  like  it — do 
him  good  to  hear  the  word  must ;  hasn't  known  the  sound  sin<5e 
he  was  a  creeping  baby  ;  still,  and  nevertheless,  my  sweet 
witch  of  Endor,  not  having  a  fancy  to  get  my  head  broken  for 
teaching  forgotten  lesspns,  I  shan't  step  from  this  spot  till  you 
go  back  to  the  master  who  sent  you,  and  just  have  the  good 
ness  to  say  from  old  Turner,  that  we  have  given  up  all  dealings 
with  him  or  his  imps  long  ago." 

11 1  will  see  the  Busne,"  answered  the  Sibyl,  clenching  her 
hand  till  it  looked  like  a  gnarled  oak  knot.  "  Curses  rest  upon 
you — I  will  see  him." 

"  And  just  add  by  way  of  private  information,"  said  Turner, 
as  if  her  last  speech  had  escaped  him  entirely,  "  that  if  he  has  a 
fancy  to  get  us  into  mischief,  there  would  be  wisdom  in  sending 
a  younger  face.  It  is  astonishing  how  strong  a  man's  princi 
ples  become,  what  a  deal  of  energy  is  given  to  his  conscience 
when  temptation  takes  a  shape  like  yours.  The  amount  of 
morality  that  lies  in  the  contemplation  of  a  face  like  a  withered 
prune,  and  a  form  like  a  good  English  faggot,  is  wonderful  !" 

My  great  grancf&me  was  very,  very  aged.  You  will  believe 
it  when  I  tell  you  that  these  jeers  on  her  person  had  no  effect 
whatever.  She  did  not  even  feel  that  they  were  intended  for 
her,  but  determined  in  her  resolve  to  penetrate  to  the  young 
Englishman,  she  interrupted  Turner's  philosophical  soliloquy 
with  an  impatient  dash  of  her  person  toward  the  space  left 
open  at  his  right  hand.  A  slight  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  the 
gipsy  buried  her  claw-like  nails  deep  into  the  flesh  of  her  anta 
gonist's  right  arm,  while  he  dropped  the  boot  and  grasped  her 
lean  throat  with  a  force  that  made  the  breath  gurgle  from  her 
lips. 

That  instant  the  sound  of  a  voice  from  within  the  Fonde 
arrested  the  combatants,  and  after  giving  a  farewell  twist  to 
the  old  woman's  neck,  and  wrenching  his  arm  from  the  grapple 


88  A    TRAVELLER'S    TOILET. 

of  her  lingers,  which  fell  away  with  a  blood  tinge  on  the  nails, 
Turner  flung  her  off  and  disappeared  through  a  side  door  that 
opened  near  the  entrance. 


CHAPTER  XL 

TOILET. 

IN  a  little  sleeping  room,  whitewashed  till  the  walls  looked 
like  a  snow  drift,  and  carpeted  with  thick  rush  matting,  he 
found  Lord  Clare  sitting  upon  the  side  of  a  low  camp  bed,  and 
looking  hopelessly  around  for  the  garments  which  we  have  seen 
fluttering  upon  the  mulberry  boughs,  and  in  the  possession  of 
Turner.  A  beautiful  dressing-case,  with  its  rich  apparatus  of 
gold,  lay  open  on  a  little  table.  Above  it  hung  a  very  small  and 
very  uncertain  mirror,  which  gave  to  the  beholder's  face  the 
effect  of  a  slight  paralytic  shock,  sending  one  corner  of  the 
mouth  shooting  up  toward  the  eyes,  and  another  wandering  off 
in  search  of  the  left  shoulder.  Lord  Clare  had  evidently 
attempted  to  commence  his  own  toilet,  but  one  glance  at  the 
mirror,  which  appalled  him  with  the  apparition  of  a  maniac 
leering  over  a  razor,  which  he  was  brandishing  as  if  to  cut  his 
own  throat,  terminated  his  labors  at  the  first  stage. 

"  Turner,  take  that  glass  away,"  said  the  young  lord,  as  his 
servant  entered,  "  and  bring  me  something  that  will  throw 
back  the  features  of  a  Christian.  This  makes  me  look  like  a 
fiend." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  muttered  the  servant,  "  everything  is 
going  crooked  with  us  ;  and  perhaps  the  looking-glass  gives 
back  the  truth  nearer  than  we  calculate." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Turner  ?"  questioned  the  young  lord, 
in  that  quiet,  gentle  tone  with  which  very  proud  men  are  apt 
to  address  inferiors. 


TOILET.  89 

"  A  little  private  conversation  between  me  and  the  looking- 
glass,  ray  lord  ;  nothing  else." 

"  It  must  be  a  very  distorted  argument,"  said  the  master, 
smiling  ;  "  but,  Turner,  I  heard  voices  at  the  door — what  was 
it  ?  You  seemed  disputing  with  some  one." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort  my  lord.  "I  don't  know  any  one  in 
this  pestilential  country  worth  disputing  with." 

"  But  surely  there  was  more  than  your  voice  ;  I  heard 
another  distinctly,  and  it  seemed  like  that  of  a  woman." 

"  Of  a  fiend,  my  lord — an  imp  of  darkness — an  old  she-wolf. 
Look,  here  are  the  marks  of  her  claws  on  my  arm  ;  they  bit 
through  to  the  bone." 

"  A  gip'sy  woman  ?"  asked  Lord  Clare,  turning  pale  ;  "an 
old  weird  creature  that  looks  like  a  child  withered  to  the  bone. 
Was  that  the  person  who  assailed  you  ?" 

"  Exactly,  my  lord,  I  couldn't  have  drawn  her  portrait  better. 
You  may  hear  her  prowling  about  the  door  yet ;  but  no  fear, 
two  bolts  are  drawn  between  us  1" 

"  And  what  does  she  want  ?"  asked  Lord  Clare,  in  a  low  and 
agitated  voice. 

"  Your  lordship,  nothing  less,"  replied  Turner. 

"  Is  she  alone  ?" 

"  Visibly,  yes  ;  but  heaven  only  knows  how  many  of  her 
infernal  sisterhood  may  swarm  around  her  in  the  air." 

"  Does  she  seem  excited — unusually  so  ?" 

"  Here  is  an  endorsement  for  that,"  replied  Turner,  stretch 
ing  forth  his  arm,  and  touching  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  through 
which  a  drop  or  two  of  blood  had  oozed. 

"Bring  my  clothes  here,  and  when  I  am  dressed  let  her  come 
in,"  said  Lord  Clare,  abruptly  ;  "I  must  see  her — I  must  know 
what  has  been  done,"  he  added,  in  an  under  tone.  "  Thank 
heaven  !  the  terrible  suspense  will  be  over." 

Turner  hesitated,  he  evidently  had  some  dislike  of  encounter 
ing  the  Sibyl  again,  valiant  as  he  was. 

"  If  I  open  the  door  she  will  rush  in — the  old  hyena." 

"  No,  no,  address  her  mildly,"  answered  Clare  ;  "  say  that  I 


90  A    TRAVELLER'S    TOILET. 

will  receive  her  the  moment  my  toilet  is  made.  If  she  is  restive, 
pacify  her  with  a  piece  of  gold  ;  but  go  at  once,  I  am  impa 
tient  for  this  scene  to  be  over." 

Turner  looked  at  his  coat-sleeve,  shook  his  head,  and  cau 
tiously  undid  the  bolt.  As  he  had  expected,  the  Sibyl  stood 
outside  in  the  passage,  her  eyes  blazing  with  fury,  her  whole 
frame  quivering  with  impatient  wrath. 

"Not  yet,  my  diamond  of  Golconda,"  said  Turner,  putting 
her  back  with  his  left  hand,  while  he  locked  the  door  and  drew 
forth  the  key.  "  Cultivate  patience,  darling,  it  is  a  Christian 
virtue,  very  respectable  and  worth  having  ;  anybody's  servant 
in  England  can  tell  you  that." 

"  Your  master,  the  Busne.  Have  you  told  him  I  am  here  ?" 
Inquired  the  Sibyl,  subduing  her  evil  nature  into  a  vicious 
wheedle  more  repulsive  than  open  malice. 

"  Yes,  I  have  told  him  the  honor  intended." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  That  you  are  to  take  this  piece  of  gold  to  gloat  over  while 
he  is  dressing  1" 

"  And  then  he  will  see  me  ?"  cried  the  old  woman  tossing  the 
gold  away  as  if  in  contempt  of  a  bribe.  "  Tell  him  I  am  the 
widow  of  a  count  1" 

"  He  feels  the  honor,  no  doubt — I  have  had  touching 
proofs." 

Turner  glanced  at  his  arm,  and  then  at  the  old  woman's 
throat.  The  dusky  red  which  circled  it  like  a  collar  satisfied 
him.  He  turned  away  chuckling,  and  went  forth  to  collect  his 
master's  garments. 

The  moment  he  was  gone  the  old  gipsy  turned  her  eyes  upon 
the  guinea  that  she  had  cast  aside.  Her  fingers  began  to 
work  ;  a  cold  gloating  light  came  into  her  eyes,  and  creeping 
toward  the  gold  as  if  it  had  been  a  serpent  fascinating  her,  she 
clutched  it  eagerly,  and  buried  it  deep  in  her  bosom. 

When  Turner  came  back  he  saw  that  the  gold  had  disap 
peared,  and,  smiling  grimly,  entered  his  lord's  chamber,  satis 
fied  that  the  Sibyl  was  quieted  for  a  time  at  least. 


TOILET.  91 

A  less  keen  observer  than  his  old  valet  might  have  seen  that 
Lord  Clare  was  greatly  agitated  while  his  toilet  was  in  pro 
gress.  He  moved  restlessly;  his  cheeks  blazed  and  faded  by 
turns;  his  voice  grew  sharp  and  imperative,  a  thing  which 
Turner  scarcely  ever  remembered  to  have  witnessed  before. 
He  seemed  particularly  annoyed  by  the  valet's  rather  stubborn 
desire  to  elaborate  his  dress,  and  finally  ordered  Turner  to 
bring  in  the  Sibyl  and  leave  him. 

This  injunction  was  anything  but  satisfactory  to  the  old  man. 
Both  in  manner  and  substance  it  was  annoying.  He  felt  that 
the  key  to  all  the  mysterious  movements  of  his  master,  during 
the  last  month,  lay  in  the  Sibyl,  who  so  peremptorily  claimed 
audience  of  his  master.  Turner  was  greatly  puzzled  and  highly 
displeased.  He  felt  as  if  his  master  and  the  gipsy  were  de 
priving  him  of  his  just  rights  and  natural  perquisites  in  thus 
securing  a  private  interview.  He  went  forth  muttering  his 
discontent.  The  old  woman's  inflamed  throat  gave  him* a 
gleam  of  comfort,  and  satisfying  himself  more  and  more  that 
she  was  a  dangerous  person  to  be  left  alone  with  his  master, 
he  stationed  himself  very  close  to  the  door  after  she  entered,  so 
close  that  a  suspicious  person  might  have  supposed  him  listen 
ing,  especially  as  he  had  left  the  door  very  slightly  ajar. 

But  my  great-grandame  outmatched  him  over  and  over 
again  in  this  sort  of  cunning.  Before  advancing  into  the  room 
where  the  Englishman  sat  waiting  for  her,  she  closed  the  door 
and  drew  a  bolt  inside,  at  which  Turner  flung  indignantly  away, 
and  took  his  seat  on  a  bench  beneath  his  lord's  window,  which 
was  open,  and  the  muslin  curtain  flowing  softly  over  it. 

But  scarcely  had  he  seated  himself  when  the  window  was 
shut  down  with  a  crash,  and  the  cuvtains  drawn  close.  Then 
Turner  fell  back  against  the  side  of  the  house,  and  struggled 
with  the  Sibyl  no  longer,  satisfied,  as  most  men  are  who  essay 
the  experiment,  that  in  a  fair  struggle  of  wit,  tact,  or  manage 
ment,  few  men  ever  come  out  successfully  against  a  woman, 
young  or  old,  fair  or  otherwise. 


92          TEMPTATIONS     AND     RESOLUTIONS. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

TEMPTATIONS   AND   RESOLUTIONS. 

MEANTIME  the  old  gipsy  stood  face  to  face  with  the  English 
man,  who  regarded  her  with  an  appearance  of  ease  which  an 
anxious  gleam  of  the  eyes  contradicted. 

"  One  word,"  he  said,  breaking  through  all  restraints  as  she 
was  about  to  address  him — "  one  word  before  you  speak  of 
other  things.  Is  Aurora  safe  ?  Is  it  to  tell  me  this,  or  ask 
her  at  my  hands  that  you  come  ?" 

The  Sibyl  was  pleased  with  his  agitation  and  his  eagerness. 
It  promised  well  for  her  mission. 

"  Aurora  is  safe  1"  she  answered,  and  it  was  wonderful  how 
the  usual  fierce  tones  of  her  voice  were  modulated.  Nothing 
could  be  more  respectful,  nay,  winning,  than  her  every  look  and 
tone.  "Aurora  is  safe  as  yet — but  our  people  have  arisen; 
they  will  not  be  satisfied  till  her  blood  reddens  the  Valley  of 
Stones." 

"But  you — you — oh,  heavens — you  cannot  see  this  done. 
Poor  child,  she  is  innocent  as  a  flower." 

"  They  do  not  believe  it  1" 

"  But  you  believe  it — her  grandame — you  will  be  his 
friend." 

"  There  is  but  one  way — only  one  in  the  world,  I  have  come 
to  say  this.  You  alone  can  save  her  from  the  fury  of  our 
tribe  !" 

"  How  can  I  save  her  ?•  Point  out  the  way,  and  if  it  is  to 
purchase  her  life  with  my  own,  speak,  and  I  will  do  it." 

"  You  must  leave  Granada  to-night,  and  take  my  grandchild 
with  you  !" 

The  young  man's  eyes  fell,  and  the  rich  color  burned,  like 


TEMPTATIONS     AND     RESOLUTIONS.  93 

fire,  in  his  cheeks;  but  he  remembered  the  scene  that  had 
passed  that  night  in  the  Alhambra,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  She  will  not  go  1  I  could  not  persuade  her  to  be  saved  on 
these  terms,"  he  said. 

"  No,  not  on  the  terms  you  are  thinking  of.  I  would  see 
her  torn  limb  from  limb  before  my  eyes;  yea,  help  to  rend  her 
to  death,  rather  than  see  her  live  the  shame  of  her  people;  but 
there  is  another  way.  Sometimes  the  rich  men  of  our  people 
have  married  among  the  Gentiles.  If  men  take  that  privilege, 
it  belongs  to  our  women  also.  Make  Aurora  your  wife  accord 
ing  to  the  marriage  rites  of  the  tribe  ;  go  with  her  privately  to 
your  own  country — leave  the  old  woman  gold  enough  to  keep 
her  from  starving,  and  she  will  be  content." 

"But  would  this  appease  your  tribe  ?  Would  they  again 
receive  Aurora  ?"  questioned  the  young  man. 

"No;  they  believe  her  a  castaway;  marriage  would  be  no 
atonement.  I  know  that  she  is  not  the  thing  they  suspect;  but 
it  would  be  of  no  use  attempting  to  convince  them.  Do  what 
I  wish,  and  they  will  believe  her  dead.  They  cannot  take  from 
me  the  right  of  a  count's  widow  to  punish  those  of  her  own 
blood  with  her  own  hands,  privately  or  not  as  she  wills.  They 
will  think  that  I  have  given  her  of  the  drao,  and  that  she  lies 
in  the  bottom  of  the  Darro." 

The  young  man  was  greatly  agitated.  He  paced  the  room 
to  and  fro;  then  he  sat  down,  veiling  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
and  fell  into  labored  thought.  At  length  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
the  old  woman,  who  had  been  regarding  him  all  the  time  in 
anxious  and  vigilant  silence. 

"  Will  Aurora  consent  to  this  ?" 

"Will  the  ring-dove  fly  to  her  covert  when  she  sees  the 
fowler's  gun  pointed  to  her  breast  ?" 

"  Last  night  she  left  me  in  anger  I" 

"  Since  last  night  she  has  felt  what  would  have  withered 
common  hearts  to  a  cinder,"  replied  the  Sibyl.  "  At  sunset  she 
was  a  child !  The  morning  light  found  her  a  woman.  Like  an 
earthquake,  terror  and  suffering  have  turned  all  the  fresh  soil 


94:    TEMPTATIONS   AND  RESOLUTIONS. 

of  her  nature  uppermost.  She  is  of  the  pure  blood,  and  that 
is  old  and  strong  as  wine  that  has  been  forgotten  centuries  in 
a  vault." 

"But  if  I  consent  to  your  plan — which  certainly  promises 
safety  to  the  poor  child — it  will  be  but  the  very  thing  in 
fact  that  I  myself  proposed  last  night.  No  marriage  ceremony 
which  you  recognize  would  be  held  binding  among  'my  people." 

"What  have  we  to  do  with  your  people?  What  do  we 
care  if  they  recognize  our  marriage  rites  or  not  ?"  answered 
the  Sibyl,  haughtily.  "  It  is  not  their  opinion  that  we  regard, 
but  our  own.  If  I  am  content — I,  her  nearest  relative — who 
shall  dare  to  cast  scorn  upon  my  child,  because  she  defies  all 
laws  but  those  of  her  own  people  ?" 

JFor  a  moment  the  young  man's  eyes  flashed  ;  but  the  excite 
ment  was  momentary.  His  face  became  grave  and  stern  ;  his 
heart  grew  heavy,  and  he  shrunk  within  himself  as  a  proud 
nature  always  must,  when  it  comes  in  possession  of  a  wrong 
wish. 

"  Understand  me  perfectly,"  he  said.  "  If  I  submit  to  this 
ceremony,  whatever  it  may  be,  it  will  not  be  considered  a 
marriage  among  my  countrymen.  Aurora  will  never  be  re 
ceived  as  my  wife — have  no  claim  on  my  property  save  that 
which  I  may,  of  my  own  free  consent,  bestow,  and  in  all  things 
her  position  must  depend  on  my  will,  my  sense  of  honor.  She 
will  not  even  be  looked  on  with  respect  ;  I  can  give  her  home, 
shelter,  gold,  affection,  care,  but  my  wife  she  cannot  be." 

"  What  Gitana  ever  was  respected  by  the  Busne  ?  We  are 
not  fools  enough  to  demand  it,"  said  the  old  woman  bitterly. 
"  As  for  your  laws,  we  despise  them — your  gold,  surely  no 
woman  of  our  people  desires  more  than  her  husband  chooses 
to  give  ;  your  whole  nation — what  is  it  to  us  but  a  curse  and 
a  thing  to  be  abhorred?  Could  my  poor  Aurora  go  back 
to  her  tribe  in  safety,  you  should  not  have  her  for  a  ton's 
weight  of  the  yellowest  gold  ever  sifted  from  the  Darro.  No, 
I  ask  that  ceremony  which  we  hold  binding,  nothing  more,  save 
that  I  may  not  be  left  to  starve,  and  Aurora  is  yours." 


TEMPTATIONS      AND     RESOLUTIONS.  95 

"  But  I  shall  be  free  by  the  law  to  marry  another,"  said  the 
young  man,  forcing  himself  to  lay  all  the  painful  points  of 
the  case  before  the  Sibyl,  thus  relieving  the  clamors  of  his 
conscience. 

"You  dare,  not  marry  another,  law  or  no  law.  Aurora  is 
of  my  blood,"  answered  the  Sibyl,  and  the  blaze  of  her  fiery 
heart  broke  over  her  face.  "A  strong  will  makes  its  own 
laws  and  defends  its  own -rights.  You  dare  not  marry  another, 
she  will  not  permit  it.  I  will  not." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  my  sweet  Gitanilla  should  ever  inherit 
the  fierce  nature  of  her  grandame,  or  my  chances  of  happiness 
were  small,  indeed,"  said  the  Englishman,  inly.  Then  ad 
dressing  the  Sibyl,  he  added,  almost  solemnly,  "  no  man  should 
promise  for  himself  in  the  future.  I  am  powerless  to  answer 
for  my  conduct  to  your  grandchild  beyond  the  present  feelings 
of  my  heart,  the  immediate  promptings  of  my  conscience.  It 
seems  to  me  now  impossible  that  I  should  ever  wrong  the 
trust  you  both  place  in  me — impossible  that  any  other  should 
ever  step  between  her  heart  and  mine.  God  only  knows  what 
is  in  the  future,"  he  continued,  with  mournful  sadness,  "  or  how 
the  past  may  break  in  and  color  it." 

He  seemed  about  sinking  into  a  reverie,  one  of  those  to 
which  he .  had  been  accustomed,  and  which  gave  a  serious 
cast  to  a  character  naturally  ardent  and  impulsive.  But  the 
old  gipsy  grew  impatient,  and  broke  in  with  something  of 
her  native  asperity,  which  had  been  kept  in  abeyance  during 
the  entire  conversation. 

"It  is  getting  late — have  you  decided,  Busne  ?"  she  said, 
without  once  removing  her  eyes,  which  had  been  reading  him 
to  the  soul.  Doubts,  struggles,* hesitations,  ^11  that  went  to 
make  up  the  flood  of  contending  feelings  that  raged  beneath 
his  calm,  almost  sad  exterior,  she  had  been  keenly  regarding. 

"  I  have  decided,"  answered  the  young  man,  in  a  firm,  but 
very  sad  voice,  "  God  knows  I  would  have  saved  her  otherwise, 
if  possible  !  When  and  where  must  this  ceremony  take  place  ? 
Not  in  presence  of  the  tribe  ;  that  I  cannot  submit  to." 


96          TEMPTATIONS     AND     RESOLUTIONS. 

The  gipsy  uttered  one  of  her  sharp,  bitter  laughs.      « 

"They  would  kill  her  and  you.  No,  no,  they  will  think 
her  dead.  Before  dawn  we  went  out  together  ;  I  shall  go 
home  alone — they  will  understand.  It  is  not  the  first  time 
that  old  Papita  has  done  that,  and  always  after,  those  who 
sought,  have  found  traces  of  her  work — I  shall  leave  them  now. 
Fragments  of  Aurora's  dress  are  clinging  to  the  brambles 
where  the  Darro  runs  deepest.  They  will  find  footsteps  also 
ground  into  the  soil,  and  tangles  of  black  hair.  They  know 
Aurora's  hair  by  the  purple  gloss." 

"  But  she,  Aurora,  tell  me  what  you  have  done  with  her  ?" 
inquired  the  young  man,  half  terrified  by  these  details. 

"  She  is  safe.  When  the  night  comes,  be  ready,  and  I  will 
take  you  where  she  is." 

"  At  what  hour  ?" 

"  Close  to  midnight,  when  you  see  the  fires  go  out  along  the 
Barranco,  expect  me." 

"  I  will." 

"  Have  mules  in  readiness,  and  a  disguise  for  the  Gitanilla  ; 
something  that  our  people  may  not  fathom  readily." 

"  It  will  be  easy,"  said  Clare,  after  a  moment's  thought ; 
"  my  page  died  on  the  coast — Turner  must  have  his  garments 
somewhere  among  my  luggage — I  will  speak  with  him." 

"  Gold  will  be  wanted,"  said  the  gipsy,  fixing  her  hungry 
glance  on  the  young  man  with  a  meaning  he  could  not  possibly 
misunderstand.  He  stepped  to  a  desk  that  lay  in  its  leather 
case  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  took  out  several  rolls  of  Eng 
lish  guineas,  enough  to  fill  one  hand. 

"  When  you  want  more,  here  is  an  address  ;  ask  freely. 
Would  to  God  all  else  were  as  easy  as  this,"  he  said,  muttering 
the  latter  words  in  his  own  language,  and  placing  a  strip  of 
paper,  on  which  he  had  hastily  written,  in  her  hand. 

The  Sibyl's  eyes  gleamed,  and  for  the  first  time  he  saw  a 
smile  of  genuine  satisfaction  flash  over  her  face. 

"  Oh  I  this  is  something  like  :  the  Busne  is  magnificent,"  she 
exclaimed,  eagerly  concealing  the  gold  in  her  dress.  "Now 


TEMPTATIONS     AND     RESOLUTIONS.  97 

they  cannot  starve  old  Papita  like  a  sick  hound  in  its  kennel — 
this  is  power,  and  she  can  defy  them.  Let  them  question  her 
if  they  dare — let  them  revile  her  if  they  have  the  courage,  and 
say  her  grandchild  had  the  death  of  shame.  What  does  Papita 
care  while  she  has  gold  and  the  drao  secret." 

The  yo'ung  man  smiled  faintly.  He  could  not  comprehend 
this  fierce  passion  for  gain  in  a  creature  left  tottering  upon  the 
brink  of  her  grave  so  long,  with  all  her  bad  passions  still 
retaining  their  keen  edge.  lie,  to  whom  wealth  came  freely  as 
the  air,  could  little  understand  how  want  and  penury,  from 
which  in  this  world  gold  alone  can  save  us,  grinds  down  the 
most  generous  nature.  He  despised  the  old  gipsy  woman  in  his 
soul;  but  had  he  suffered  as  she  had  done,  in  what  might  he 
have  been  superior  ?  It  is  easy  to  scorn  the  sin  to  which  we 
have  no  temptation. 

Eager  to  count  over  her  gold — more  than  satisfied  with  her 
morning's  success,  my  great  grandame  left  the  Fonde  chuckling 
to  herself,  and  hugging  her  treasure  with  both  arms  fondly  as  a 
mother  caresses  her  child.  On  her  way  down  the  hill  she  met 
Turner,  who  eyed  her  like  an  angry  mastiff,  and  muttered  to 
himself  in  English  something  that  she  did  not  understand.  He 
stood  looking  after  her  as  she  disappeared  among  the  trees,  but 
she  was  busy  with  her  gold,  and  cared  nothing  for  his  scrutiny. 

"  Turner,"  said  Lord  Clare,  as  that  functionary  entered  the 
Fonde. 

"  My  lord  I"  was  the  terse  reply,  and  by  the  very  tone  in 
which  it  was  uttered  Clare  saw  that  the  moment  was  unpropi- 
tious  for  his  orders,  and  he  gave  them,  with  a  faint  blush  and 
some  hesitation. 

"  Turner,  you  will  settle  with  the  people  here  ;  pack  up,  and 
be  ready  to  start  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  Which  way,  my  lord  ?" 

When  Turner  was  out  of  sorts  his  words  were  very  few,  and 
those  few  came  forth  with  jerks,  as  if  he  plucked  them  up  one 
by  one  from  the  depths  of  his  bosom. 

"  I — I  have  not  quite  determined.  Across  to  Malija,  perhaps." 

5 


98          TEMPTATIONS     AND     RESOLUTIONS. 

"  Humph  !" 

"  This  does  not  seem  to  please  you,  Turner." 

"  What  right  has  a  servant  to  be  pleased,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?"  was  the  gruff  rejoinder, 

"  When  an  old  servant  is  a  faithful  friend  too,  we  like  to  see 
him  satisfied/'  said  Clare,  in  a  voice  that  no  woman  could  have 
resisted.  But  Turner  felt  his  advantage.  He  saw  that  his 
master  kept  something  back  which  he  hesitated  to  speak  out, 
and  so  resolved  not  to  soften  his  embarrassment  in  the  least. 

"  We  shall  require  three  saddle  mules,  the  best  that  can  be 
found  in  Granada,"  said  the  master,  at  length. 

"  Three  !  humph  !"  ejaculated  Turner  again. 

"  And  others  for  the  luggage,"  persisted  the  young  man, 
more  decidedly. 

*  Turner  bowed  stiffly.  He  understood  this  change  in  his 
master's  tone,  and  did  not  like  to  brave  him  beyond  a  certain 
point.  After  a  moment  Clare  spoke  again. 

"  You  have  the  clothes  that  the  boy  William  left,  I  suppose  ?" 
he  said,  but  without  looking  his  old  serving  man  in  the  face  as 
usual. 

"  Yes,  I  have  them,  my  lord." 

"  Very  well — leave  them  out — they  will  be  wanted.  I  take 
a  new  page  with  me  from  hence." 

Turner  did  not  speak  now,  but  his  features  fell,  and  with  a 
grave  air,  perfectly  respectful,  but  full  of  rebuke,  he  stood 
looking  at  his  young  master. 

"  Have  you  a  wish  to  discharge  old  Turner  ?"  said  the  ser 
vant,  at  length,  choking  back  the  emotions  that  seemed  forcing 
the  words  from  his  throat. 

"  Discharge  you,  Turner  ;  why,  you  wouldn't  go  if  I  did," 
cried  the  young  lord,  forcing  a  laugh. 

"  Humph  !"  groaned  the  pld  man  ;  "  perhaps  it  will  be  vice 
versa — who  knows  ?" 

The  blood  rushed  into  Lord  Clare's  face,  but  before  he  could 
speak,  Turner  left  the  room. 


THE     WEIED     WEDDING.  99 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   WEIRD   WEDDING. 

"  TURNER  !" 

"  My  lord  !" 

"Have  you  prepared  the  dress  I  spoke  of?" 

"It  is  ready  :  what  shall  I  do  with  it,  my  master ?" 

"Leave  it  in  my  room.  The  preparations,  are  they  all 
made  ?" 

"  All." 

"And  you  will  be  ready  to  start  at  a  moment's  warning, 
night  or  day  ?" 

"  The  mules  are  saddled  now  ;  every  thing  packed  !" 

"  It  is  well ;  I  shall  not  want  you  again  for  some  hours.  As 
we  leave  Granada  so  soon,  you  may  have  friends  to  part  with, 
something  to  purchase.  Go  into  the  city  if  you  desire." 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord  !"  replied  Turner,  with  more  than 
ordinary  meekness  ;  "  I  am  much  obliged  by  the  permission." 

The  young  earl  looked  up  suddenly.  There  was  a  dryness  in 
Turner's  voice  that  he  did  not  like,  but  the  immovable  face  of 
the  old  man  revealed  nothing.  He  touched  his  hat  with  mili 
tary  brevity  and  moved  away,  measuring  his  long  strides  down 
the  avenue  with  a  slow  regularity  that  marked  all  his  move 
ments. 

Lord  Clare  looked  after  him  anxiously,  and  muttering  to 
himself,  "  Well,  well,  we  must  manage  him  some  way,"  entered 
the  Fonde,  and  spent  some  hours  alone  in  his  room  walking  to 
and  fro,  and  tortured  with  those  thousand  wild  dreams  that 
haunt  an  imaginative  person  so  like  demons  when  the  great 
epochs  of  life  are  close  at  hand.  The  sunset  paled  around  him, 
and  night  came  more  darkly  than  is  usual  in  that  climate. 


100  THE     WEIRD     WEDDING. 

Still  he  ordered  no  lights,  but  placing  the  bundle  of  page's  gar 
ments  on  the  table  near  his  elbow,  sat  down  and  waited  in 
sombre  silence. 

To  reveal  all  the  thoughts  that  flowed  through  his  mind, 
one  must  have  known  his  previous  life,  and  of  that  even  to  this 
day  I  am  not  informed.  Nay,  who  is  ever  informed  of  those 
acts  which  give  the  well-springs  of  thought  in  any  human 
being  ?  Men  and  women  live  together  under  the  same  roof,  sit 
at  the  same  board,  and  talk  of  knowing  each  other's  hearts, 
feelings,  lives.  At  the  Day  of  Judgment  when  all  hearts 
will  be  read,  fold  by  fold,  like  the  leaves  of  a  book,  how  will 
these  persons  be  astonished  at  the  unspoken  feelings,  the 
unimagined  acts  that  have  marked  the  lives,  and  burned  them 
selves  upon  the  hearts  with  which  they  believed  themselves  so 
familiar. 

Lord  Clare  sat  motionless  now,  for  he  was  waiting  with  that 
intense  -anxiety  which  makes  one's  own  breath  a  torment, 
because  it  disturbs  the  stillness  with  which  we  desire  to  enve 
lop  ourselves  when  listening.  At  length  he  heard  a  step,  soft 
and  cat-like,  stealing  through  the  passage.  Then  the  door  of 
his  room  opened,  and  in  the  darkness  he  saw  two  eyes  glowing 
upon  him  like  those  of  a  tiger,  when  the  rest  of  its  body  is 
concealed  among  the  dusky  limbs  of  a  forest  tree. 

"  Come,"  said  the  voice  of  old  Papita,  "  it  is  time.7-' 

Lord  Clare  started  up  and  moved  .toward  the  door. 

"  The  clothes,  give  me  the  disguise,"  whispered  the  Sibyl ; 
"  where  is  it  ?" 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  put  forth  her  claw-like 
hands,  felt  her  way  to  the  table,  and  grasped  the  bundle. 

"  Come,  come,"  she  whispered,  seizing  Lord  Clare  by  the 
hand. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  band  were  grasped  by  the  claw  of 
a  demon,  so  hard,  dry  and  hot  were  those  fingers  as  they 
clutched  his  ;  and  as  he  stooped  that  she  might  whisper  in  his 
ear,  the  hot  breath  that  passed  over  his  cheek  made  him  shud 
der.  She  led  him  out  back  of  the  Fonde  amid  broken  timbers, 


THE     WEIRD' 

loose  rocks  and  rubbish  of  every  description  :  she  scrambled 
on,  dragging  him  after  her/ till  they  stood  by  a  wooden  door 
opening,  as  it  seemed,  into  the  embankment  behind  the  Fonde. 

Papita  pushed  at  this  door,  and  it  gave  way,  revealing  the 
mouth  of  a  subterranean  passage  choked  up  with  darkness. 

"  Come  quickly,  or  some  one  may  be  on  the  watch,"  whis 
pered  the  Sibyl,  for  Lord  Clare  had  hesitated  at  this  forbidding 
entrance.  * 

He  was  a  brave  man,  but  at  this  instant  many  stories  of 
gipsy  vengeance  flashed  through  his  mind,  and  his  companion 
was  not  one  to  reconcile  these  doubts.  There  was  something 
too  impish  arid  unearthly  in  her  for  that. 

"  Do  you  fear  ?  the  Busne  is  brave,"  said  the  Sibyl  scornfully 
— for  even  interest  could  not  always  keep  down  her  malice — 
"  like  a  gipsy  baby,  afraid  of  the  dark  !" 

"  Peace,  woman.  '  It  is  not  fear  ;  but  I  go  into  this  place 
only  when  I  am  certain  what  it  contains,  and  where  it  ends," 
replied  the  earl,  firmly. 

"  It  contains  Aurora,  and  it  ends  in  the  palace  of  the  Alham- 
bra,"  answered  the  Sibyl,  promptly.  "  It  was  through  this 
passage  that  the  last  Moorish  king,  Boabdil,  left  the  Alhainbra 
forever.  You  stand  upon  the  very  earth  where  he  came  forth 
to  the  day  which  he  had  learned  to  curse." 

A  deeper  gloom  feel  upon  Lord  Clare.  He  looked  upward. 
The  black,  rugged  towers  of  the  Alhambra  loomed  between 
him  and  the  sky.  Clouds  hung  low  upon  them,  and  the  dim 
trees  were  thick  and  pall  like,  bracking  the  night  below  him. 

The  unfortunate  Moorish  king  seemed  near  by.  Never,  per 
haps,  had  history  pressed  so  close  upon  a  human  heart.  Lord 
Clare  for  a  moment  forgot  his  own  position,  the  Sibyl,  Aurora, 
everything  in  his  intense  realization  of  the  past. 

"  In,  in,"  exclaimed  the  Sibyl.  "  I  see  a  man  creeping  round 
yon  corner  of  the  Fonde  ;  we  have.no  time.  If  you  fear,  stay 
behind  :  the  men  of  our  people  know  how  to  avenge  themselves 
in  the  day  time  as  well  as  in  the  dark." 

"Have  done — have  done,"  exclaimed  the  earl,  sharply,  "how 


WEDDING. 

can  you  judge  of  my  thoughts  ?  I  trust  you  in  nothing,  but  am 
sure  of  myself.  If  you  play  me  false  I  will  shoot  you  like  a 
dog,  woman  or  no  woman  ;  so  move  on  and  only  speak  when 
you  have  something  to  say." 

lie  entered  the  passage  speaking,  and  the  next  moment  was 
engulphed  with  his  weird  companion  in  thick  darkness. 

"  Truly,  Thomas  Tamer,  my  estimable  friend,  you  have  got 
a  sad  fool  for  a  master,  that  is  a»dead  certainty  !"  muttered  old 
Turner,  for  it  was  his  figure  the  sharp  eye  of  the  Sibyl  had  dis 
covered — "  to  trust  himself  now  with  this  old  vagrant — to  plunge 
headforemost  into  that  black  pit  with  the  imp  of  Satan  for  a 
guide.  It's  enough  to  make  one's  heart  leap  into  his  ~mouth 
and  freeze  there.  But  of  course  it's  the  bounden  duty  of  a 
good  servant  to  follow  his  master.  Thomas  Turner,  you  are  a 
good  servant,  everybody  admits  that.  Therefore,  Thomas,  my 
friend,  follow — follow  like  a  brave  fellow  as  you  are  !" 

With  these  words,  Turner,  who  was  in  truth  a  brave  fellow, 
drew  his  travelling  pistol,  settled  the  lock,  and  holding  it  in  his 
right  hand,  stole  cautiously  into  the  passage. 

Nothing  could  have  been  better  calculated  to  daunt  even  a 
brave  man  than  the  profound  stillness,  the  palpable  blackness  of 
this  subterranean  passage.  Turner  had  proceeded  only  a  few 
paces  when  he  felt  that  like  a  cavern  it  had  its  compartments  and 
its  intricate  windings — steps  to  ascend  and  descend.  Then  to 
his  dismay  he  found  that  it  branched  off  into  vaults,  and  what 
appeared  to  be  dungeons  or  secret  chambers  for  concealmenf. 
He  paused  and  listened.  Nothing  was  heard,  not  even  the 
sweet  gush  of  waters  that  in  Granada  are  ever  present  like  the 
sunshine  or  the  breeze.  All  was  profound  stillness.  No  foot 
step,  no  voice.  Deep  midnight  and  those  solid  stone  walls  sur 
rounded  him  alone.  He  groped  about,  advancing  he  knew  not 
whither,  tempted  every  momant  to  call  aloud,  though  certain 
that  this  rash  act  must  defeat  his  own  object. 

At  last,  completely  bewildered,  he  held  forth  his  pistol,  and 
with  a  finger  on  the  trigger  was  about  to  fire,  that  at  least  he 
might  have  the  benefit  of  a  flash  to  guide  his  course.  But  that 


THE      WEIRD     WEDDING*  103 

moment  a  faint  sound  reached  his  ear.  He  dropped  his  hand, 
listened,  and  moved  on.  Yes,  it  was  a  light,  the  faintest  possi 
ble  gleam  breaking  over  the  rugged  corner  of  a  wall,  but  it 
burned  steadily  enough  to  guide  him  onward.  * 

He  moved  cautiously,  for  now  the  faint  hum  of  voices  came 
stealing  through  the  vaulted  passage,  an$  he  knew  that  the 
slightest  mistake  might  expose  his  presence.  Reaching  an 
angle  of  the  wall,  he  crept  into  its  shadow  and  held  his  breath. 
Before  him  was  a  small  chamber,  or  it  might  be  merely  an  en 
largement  of  the  passage.  An  antique  house  lamp,  rust  eaten 
and  moist  with  mould,  hung  from  the  ceiling,  evidently  trimmed 
for  the  first  time  in  years,  for  the  flame  was  half  buried  in 
clouds  of  smoke  ;  and  drops  of  the  olive  oil,  with  which  it  had 
just  been  filled,  rolled  down  the  chased  sides,  leaving  a  green 
path  in  the  rust. 

In  this  strange,  murky  light  a  group  of  persons  were  stand 
ing  around  a  fragment  of  black  marble,  in  which  Turner,  with 
difficulty,  traced  the  outlines  of  some  very  ancient  sculpture, 
like  that  which  in  his  travels  he  had  seen  on  Egyptian  idols. 
Two  other  persons  besides  the  Sibyl  were  present,  both  in 
strange  garments,  and  unlike  the  class  of  persons  he  had  yet 
seen  in  any  province  of  Spain.  But  Turner  scarcely  gave  them 
a  thought.  His  attention  was  too  eagerly  fixed  on  Lord  Clare, 
who  stood  before  the  platform  on  which  the  idol  had  been 
lifted,  holding  a  young  girl,  undoubtedly  of  gipsy  blood,  by  the 
hand. 

From  their  attitude  they  must  have  just  risen  from  a  kneel 
ing  posture,  and  some  ceremony  seemed  just  concluded.  What 
the  ceremony  could  be  which  had  brought  his  master,  the 
withered  Sibyl,  those  strange  menv  and  that  wildly  beautiful 
girl  around  that  mutilated  form  of  black  marble,  Turner  could 
not  even  imagine.  But  the  whole  scene  was  weird  and  strange 
enough  for  the  wildest  conjecture.  The  Sibyl  stood  forward 
directly  under  the  lamp.  The  smoke  wreathed  in  clouds  around 
the  fiery  red  folds  of  her  turban.  Her  saya  was  edged  knee 
deep  with  the  richest  gold  lace,  bright  in  broad  flashes,  then 


104  THE 

tarnished  to  a  green  hue,  but  still  of  unique  splendor  ;  her 
ear-rings  glowed  over  those  mummy-like  shoulders  like  drops 
of  congealed  blood.  The  exulting  brightness  of  her  eyes  was 
terriftt.  She  looked  so  like  an  evil  spirit  that  poor  Turner 
absolutely  believed  her  to  be  one,  who  had  cast  some  infernal 
charm  upon  his  master. 

He  shrunk  away  crowding  himself  hard  against  the  wall, 
but  still  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  group.  Lord  Clare  was 
very  pale,  and  the  grim  light  made  this  pallor  and  the  excite 
ment  in  his  eyes  almost  unearthly.  A  look  of  painful  disgust 
was  on  his  features,  like  that  of  a  man  who  loathes  the  thing 
he  has  forced  himself  to  do.  Once  he  dropped  the  Gitanilla's 
hand,  looking  wearily  around  as  if  for  something  to  sit  down 
upon. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
THE    GITANILLA'S    OATH. 

THEN  for  the  first  time  Turner  saw  the  eyes  of  my  mother, 
those  wonderful,  glorious  eyes,  fiery  as  a  star,  soft  as  the  dew 
in  a  flower  They  were  lifted  to  Clare's  face,  fondly,  wonder- 
ingly,  as  if  she  marvelled  that  he  could  thus  break  the  delicious 
joy  that  thrilled  her  heart  and  soul.  There  was  something 
of  lingering  terror  yet  in  her  face,  but  so  blended  with  the 
wild,  deep  passion  of  her  love*  that  it  kindled  up  her  features 
like  lightning.  The  old  woman  was  regarding  her  not  with 
tenderness,  that  was  impossible.  If  she  had  any,  it  lay  so  deep 
in  that  rocky  old  heart  that  no  ripple  of  it  ever  disturbed  the 
hardness  of  her  features.  *  '- 

The  Gitauilla  drew  toward  her,  took  her  rigid  fingers,  and 
pressed  them  to  her  lips  and  forehead.  She  uttered  a  few 
words  in  a  tongue  unknown  to  Turner,  and  tears  crowded 
one  after  another  into  her  great  bright  eyes.  They  must  have 


THE    GITANILLA'S    OATH.  105 

been  full  of  passionate  feeling,  for  the  hafd,  keen  eyes  of 
the  Sibyl  grew  strangely  dim,  and  with  her  hand  she  put 
back  the  jetty  waves  from  my  mother's  forehead,  making  the 
sign  of  some  strange  writing  upon  its  bloodless  surface. 

They  stood  together  thus,  the  bright  red  flounces  of  their 
sayas  mingling  in  waves  of  gold  lace  and  heavy  crimson.  The 
blue  bodice  of  the  girl  pressed  to  the  jet  black  velvet  that 
clung  to  the  form  of  the  Sibyl  like  the  fragment  of  some 
funeral  pall.  There  was  something  terrible  in  their  appear 
ance.  The  old  woman's  arms  clung  around  that  lithe  form 
with  serpentlike  folds.  Her  turban  blended,  like  waves  of  fire, 
with  those  raven  tresses.  It  seemed  like  the  embrace  of  a 
demon.  For  the  lamp  whirled  and  flared  overhead,  swinging 
to  some  concealed  current  of  wind,  and  the  smoke  flung  around 
them  a  dusky  veil,  now  of  heavy  grey,  now  threaded  with 
fire  by  the  unsteady  flame.  Besides  this,  was  the  contrast 
of  her  rich  youth  with  that  terrible  thing,  a  wicked  old  age. 

No  wonder  Turner  shrunk  against  the  wall,  and  grew  chilly 
without  knowing  why.  No  wonder  Lord  Clare  was  aroused 
from  all  the  feelings  that  had  enchained  him  till  now  !  He 
started  forward,  and  would  have  taken  my  mother  from  the 
embrace  of  her  last  and  only  relative.  But  the  old  woman  thrust 
him  aside,  and  spoke  eagerly  with  the  grand-daughter  in  the 
Rornmany  tongue  ;  and  in  this  tongue  my  mother  answered  her. 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  she  was  saying  ?  My  mother  left 
me  a  record  in  the  fragments  of  her  journal.  The  Sibyl  first 
urged  her  to  win  the  Busne  to  the  sending  of  more  and  more 
gold  ;  then  sheoextorted  a  promise,  a  fearful  promise,  which 
the  poor  girl  kept  but  too  faithfully. 

When  the  Sibyl  relinquished  my  mother  from  her  embrace, 
the  poor  child  staggered  and  fell  away  from  her  arms  like  a 
crashed  lily.  Her  lips  were  violet  color  ;  her  face  more  than 
bloodless.  She  seemed  to  be  dying. 

Lord  Clare  took  her  in  his  arms  and  laid  her  face  upon  his 
bosom.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  the  warm  flood  of  life  come 
back  to  the  mysterious  influence  of  his  touch.  Her  lips  grew 

5* 


106  THE    GITANILLA'S    OATH. 

bright  as  strawberries  ;  and  tears  rolled  from  her  half-closed 
eyes,  dropping  like  dew  upon  the  peachy  bloom  of  her  cheek. 
You  could  see  her  tremble  from  head  to  foot,  so  deep,  so 
passionate  were  the  feelings  that  flooded  her  young  being  with 
their  delicious  joy. 

The  Sibyl  looked  on  with  grim  satisfaction,  but  the  two 
strange  men  seemed  to  expostulate  with  her,  or  to  ask  some 
directions.  She  answered  them  haughtily,  and  touching  the 
ruby  ear-rings  with  her  finger,  pointed  down  the  passage. 

They  obeyed  at  once,  each  bending  his  head  submissively 
as  he  passed  the  old  woman.  I  do  not  know  how  far  those 
ruby  ear-rings  were  symbols  of  authority,  but  my  great 
grandame  had  some  mysterious  claim  of  obedience  from  the 
descendants  of  those  few  of  her  people  who  aided  her  ances 
tress  in  the  betrayal  of  Maria  de  Padilla,  and  the  two  men 
were  all  of  our  tribe  who  could  boast  of  the  treacherous  blood 
that  had  persuaded  that  heroic  woman  to  her  terrible  death. 
They  believed'  that  obedience  unto  death  was  due  the  last 
descendant  of  the  arch-sorceress,  who  had  most  effectually 
worked  out  their  national  hate  against  the  whites.  To  them 
the  ruby  ear-rings  were  a  symbol  of  absolute  power.  Had 
my  great-grandame  commanded  them  to  leap  into  the  Darro 
without  a  struggle  for  life,  they  would  have  done  it.  She 
only  imposed  secrecy,  craft,  and  unscrupulous  falsehood,  and 
those  things  came  so  naturally  that  it  required  little  authority 
to  enforce  them. 

These  men  passed  Turner  without  seeing  him.  He  did  not 
heed  them,  but  still  watched  the  persons  who  remained  standing 
near  the  Egyptian  idol. 

The  Sibyl  stood  directly  before  Lord  Clare,  who  still  half 
supported  her  grand-daughter.  Now  her  manner  was  imposing, 
her  energy  sublime;  the  sorceress  blood  seemed  to  glow  a*d 
burn  in  her  veins  as  she  spoke.  It  was  to  Lord  Clare  she  ad 
dressed  herself,  not  to  the  girl.  The  whispered  words  that  had 
withered  her  cheek  and  lip,  were  all  the  farewell  admonition 
she  had  to  give  her  :  but  that  which  she  said  to  Clare  had  the 


THE    GITANILLA'S    OATH.  107 

same  effect.     Aurora  shook  with  terror  as  her  relative  uttered 
her  last — it  might  almost  be  called  malediction. 

"  Go,"  she  said — "go,  and  with  you  take  the  last  drop  of 
my  blood  that  burns  in  a  human  heart.  Take  her — keep  faith 
with  her,  nor  dream  that  this  marriage  is  less  binding  than  if 
all  the  high  priests  of  Spain  and  of  your  land,  wherever  it  may 
be,  had  celebrated  it  in  the  great  cathedral  down  yonder,  with 
the  high  altar  in  a  blaze  of  light,  and  the  tomb  of  Queen  Isa 
bella  giving  sanctity  to  the  spot.  Look  at  your  wife,  how  her 
eyes  dwell  upon  you — how  full  of  hope  and  trust  they  are — how 
wildly  she  wishes  to  be  free  from  this  dim  vault,  alone  with 
you,  and  away  from  her  last  of  kin.  The  blossoms  that  live 
half  in  sunshine,  half  in  snow,  on  the  Sierra  Nevada,  are  not 
more  stainless  than  this  child.  The  hot  sun  that  ripens  the 
orange  on  the  Guadalquivir  is  not  more  fervent  than  her  pas 
sionate  nature — more  btfrning  than  her  pride.  Be  just  to  the 
child,  or  beware  of  the  woman.  She  is  in  your  hands;  make  of 
her  what  you  will,  a  gazelle  or  a  tiger,  the  thing  you  call  an 
angel,  or  the  thing  you  fear  as  a  fiend.  That  which  you  make 
her  she  will  be,  a  blessing  or  a  curse,  which  will  cling  to  you  for 
ever  and  ever.  Free  to  act,  free*to  marry,  these  were  your 
words  twelve  hours  ago.  This  you  believed,  and  I,  the  old 
gipsy,  mocked  at  your  folly. 

"  In  England,  you  say,  and  h.ere  with  us,  marriages  are  alike 
binding  unto  death — death,  and  nothing  but  death,  can  sepa 
rate  you  from  this  child.  You  have  sworn  it  before  my  god  ; 
she  has  sworn  it  before  her  god  ;  and  I  have  sworn  by  all  the 
eternal  powers  that  exist,  high  or  low.  Hope  not  to  shake  off 
Papita's  oath,  or  your  own.  Your  laws — all  the  laws  of  this- 
nation  or  yours  are  but  shadows  against  the  stern  will  of  a 
Woman  whom  nature  has  made  strong,  and  treason  has  left 
desperate. 

"  I  looked  for  the  stars  to-night.  They  were  troubled,  buried 
in  clouds,  pale  and  half  extinguished  in  vapor,  as  the  Darro 
flings  them  back  when  it  is  turbid  and  muddy.  So  it  always 
is  when  I  would  read  her  fate  and  yours.  That  bespeaks  "- 


108  THE    GITANILLA'S    OATH. 

"  Stay  I"  said  the  earl,  sternly,  "  you  are  killing  her — see 
how  white  she  is — how  she  trembles.  Why  torture  her  in  this 
way,  it  can  do  no  good  ?" 

"I  declare  to  you  again  I  feel  it  in  my  soul,  and  read  it  in 
the  stars,  nothing  but  death  shall  separate  you  from  this,  my 
grand-daughter.  Swear  it  again  1" 

She  spoke  to  Aurora,  who  either  from  weakness,  or  obeying 
the  Sibyl's  gesture,  laid  her  hand  on  the  forehead  of  the  Egyp 
tian  idol,  and  her  white  lips  moved  as  if  uttering  some  inward 
vow.  Turner  saw  this,  but  Lord  Clare  mistook  the  ,sudden 
recoil-  as  an  evidence  of  exhaustion,  and  with  a  flushed  cheek 
sought  to  protect  her  from  further  persecution. 

"  This  has  gone  too  far,"  he  said;  "  I  will  submit  no  longer. 
Make  what  preparations  you  will,  but  in  haste,  for  the  night  is 
wearing  on." 

"  It  is  enough,"  answered  the  Sibyfc  "  I  have  said  my  say, 
and  the  oath  is  sworn." 

"  Be  in  haste,"  answered  the  earl  impatiently,  drawing  forth 
his  watch.  "  It  is  now  past  midnight." 

The  old  woman  drew  aside,  and  by  the  smoky  light  Turner 
saw  that  she  was  searching  for  something  in  the  folds  of  her 
dress. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  coming  forth,  "this  trinket  may  be  worth 
something  to  you.  Our  people  would  have  crushed  it  up  for 
the  gold,  but  I  would  not  let  them." 

She  held  it  in  her  hand,  so  that  the  light  fell  directly  upon 
an  exquisite  little  miniature  formed  like  a  shell,  which  the 
reader  will  remember  as  a  portion  of  the  plunder  which  Cha- 
leco  brought  fiom  his  expedition  to  Seville.  That  side  of  the 
case  was  open  which  held  the  female  portrait,  and  the  light  fell 
with  peculiar  brightness  upon  the  features. 

As  Lord  Clare  saw  it  he  recoiled,  drew  a  sharp  breath,  and 
the  sudden  paleness  that  crept  over  his  face  was  terrible. 

"  This,  and  in  your  hands  ?"  he  said,  in  a  husky  voice,  fixing 
his  enlarged  eyes  on  the  Sibyl.  "  How  dare  you,  fiend — how 
dare  you  ?" 


THE    GITANILLA'S    OATH.  109 

The  old  woman  gave  a  low  hiss  with  her  tongue,  and  looking 
hard  at  Aurora,  said,  in  a  clear,  sharp  tone,  "Remember  the 
oath;  you  will  have  need;  remember  this  face  too." 

Lord  Clare  snatched  the  miniature  from  her  hand  with  a 
violence  that  made  the  case  shut  with  a  snap,  that  seemed  like 
the  click  of  a  pistol  before  it  goes  off.  But  my  mother  had 
seen  the  face,  and  though  it  made  little  impression  at  the  time, 
when  everything  seemed  like  a  dream,  she  remembered  it  in 
after  years. 

"  Now,"  said  the  earl,  more  fiercely  than  he  had  spoken  be 
fore  that  night, v"  prepare  her  at  once,  I  will  remain  here  no 
longer." 

The  old  woman  withdrew,  leading  my  mother  with  her.  They 
went  into  some  side  passage,  and  Turner  lost  sight  of  them,  for 
he  was  too  deeply  interested  in  the  movements  of  Lord  Clare  to 
leave  his  position. 

The  earl  watched  till  they  were  out  of  sight,  then  sat  down 
with  his  back  against  the  idol,  opened  the  miniature,  gave  one 
glance,  shut  it  again,  and  bent  his  forehead  upon  the  hand  in 
which  it  was  clenched.  Thus  he  remained  motionless  till  a 
sound  of  footsteps  aroused  him,  when  he  sprang  up,  thrust  the 
miniature  in  his  bosom,  and  stood  calm  and  immovable  as  a 
statue,  ready  to  receive  his  wife.  I  call  her  his  wife,  and  never, 
never  while  there  is  breath  in  my  bosom,  will  I,  her  child,  his 
child,  admit  that  she  was  not.  Are  not  our  laws  as  sacred  as 
those  of  England  ? 

My  mother  came  forward  clad  in  the  pretty  attire  of  an  Eng 
lish  page,  and  so  disguised,  so  full  of  that  beautiful,  shrinking 
modesty  which  true  women  always  feel  when  presented  in  a 
doubtful  position  before  a  beloved  object,  that  it  could  not  fail 
to  arouse  Lord  Clare  from  the  stupor  that  had  fallen  upon 
him.  He  smiled  faintly  as  she  came  forward,  and  drawing  her 
arm  through  his,  followed  the  Sibyl  down  the  subterranean 
passage,  guided  by  a  small  lamp  that  had  stood  before  the 
Egyptian  idol.  They  came  out  into  the  fresh  night,  on  the 
very  spot  where  the  Moorish  King  gave  up  the  splendor  of  his 


110         THE     MANSION     AND     THE     COTTAGE. 

life.  Lord  Clare  thought  of  this,  and  his  heart  grew  heavy 
again. 

Turner  followed  with  long,  noiseless  strides,  and  gliding 
behind  the  Fonde  like  a  shadow,  stood  by  the  mules  which  had 
been  drawn  up  beneath  the  thick  trees  ready  to  receive  the 
party. 

An  hour  after,  my  poor  mother  was  looking  back  to  obtain 
one  more  last  glimpse  of  Granada,  and  the  gipsy  Sibyl  sat 
alone  in  her  cave  with  a  heap  of  gold  in  her  lap,  counting  it 
over  and  over  by  the  dim  light  that  struggled  down  from  a 
niche  in  the  smoky  wall. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THE   MANSION   AND  THE   COTTAGE. 

THE  first  bright  picture  upon  my  memory  was  of  Greenhurst, 
Lord  Clare's  ancestral  home.  It  rests  in  my  mind  a  back 
ground  of  gorgeous  and  hazy  confusion,  indistinct  and  mellow 
as  a  sunset  cloud.  Then  comes  a  misty  outline  of  distant 
mountains  melting  into  the  more  clearly  defined  middle  dis 
tance,  and  in  the  foreground  a  beautiful  stream  sleeping  beneath 
old  trees,  sparkling  through  the  hollows,  and  spreading  out 
like  a  lake  in  the  green  meadows.  A  lawn  rose  softly  upward 
from  the  banks  of  this  river,  broad  and  green  as  emerald.  If 
you  parted  the  soft  grass,  an  undergrowth  of  the  finest  moss 
met  your  view  like  velvet  beneath  a  wealth  of  embroidery. 
Clumps  of  trees  shaded  the  lawn  here  and  there,  and  on  either 
hand,  so  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  a  park  of  magnificent  old 
chestnuts,  with  a  fine  variety  of  oaks,  filled  the  eye  with  the 
vast  wealth  of  their  foliage. 

A  dozen  avenues  led  through  this  park,  some  of  them  miles 


THE     MANSION      AND     THE     COTTAGE.          Ill 

in  length,  and  almost  all  commanded  some  view  of  the  old 
mansion.  One  revealed  a  gable  cutting  picturesquely  against 
the  sky  ;  another  commanded  the  back  entrance,  with  its  mas 
sive  stonework,  burdened  with  heavy  armorial  bearings,  and 
heaped  with  quarterings  till  the  herald  office  itself  would  have 
been  puzzled  to  unravel  them.  A  third  opened  upon  the  east 
wing,  with  its  broad  bay  windows  curving  into  old  stone  balco 
nies  covered  with  ponderous  sculpture,  its  antique  casements 
filled  with  single  sheets  of  plate  glass  which  shone  through  the 
ivy  like  flashes  of  a  river  between  the  trees  that  fringe  it — thus 
was  blended  all  that  is  gay  and  cheerful  in  our  times  with  the 
sombre  magnificence  of  the  long  ago,  beautifully  as  we  find 
the  sunshine  pouring  its  glory  into  the  dark  bosom  of  a  forest. 

This  view  I  remember  best,  for  it  was  the _  first  object  that 
ever  fastened  itself  upon  my  memory.  A  waste  of  flower-beds, 
clumps  of  rich  trees,  and  the  wilderness,  as  we  called  a  tract  of 
land  in  which  all  the  wildness  of  nature  was  carefully  preserved, 
lay  between  the  little  antique* cottage  that  I  was  born  in  and 
Greenhurst. 

Lord  Clare  had  his  own  rooms  in  that  wing  of  the  building, 
and  a  footpath  bordered  with  wild  blossoms,  rich  ferns,  and 
creeping  ivy,  wound  from  a  flight  of  stone  steps  that  descended 
from  his  apartments,  around  the  circular  flower-beds,  and 
through  the  wilderness  to  the  jessamine  porch  of  our  dwelling. 
It  was  a  well-trodden  path  when  I  first  remember  it  ;  and  no 
foot  ever  passed  down  its  entire  length  but  that  of  Lord  Clare. 
Even  the  gardeners  felt  that  to  be  in  that  portion  of  the 
grounds,  after  the  master  left  his  apartments,  was  an  intrusion. 
Turner,  dear,  good  old  Turner,  visited  us  every  day,  but  he 
always  came  down  the  chestnut  avenue.  No  other  servant 
from  the  mansion  ever  came  near  us.- 

A  Spanish  woman  who  had  learned  but  little  English,  was 
all  the  domestic  we  had.  Lord  Clare  had  brought  her  from 
Malaga,  and  had  she  spoken  his  language  well,  the  most  prying 
curiosity  could  have  gained  no  information  regarding  my  parents 
from  her. 


112         THE     MANSION      AND     THE     COTTAGE. 

Our  cottage  was  the  loveliest  little  dwelling  on  earth.  White 
roses,  rich  golden  multifloras,  and  the  most  fragrant  of  honey 
suckles  covered  it  to  the  roof.  You  were  forced  to  put  back  a 
sheet  of  blossoms  with  each  hand  like  drapery  every  time  you 
opened  a  casement.  The  stone  porch  was  sheeted  over  and 
fringed  down  with  white  jessamine:  and  the  garden  that  sur 
rounded  it  was  a  perfect  labyrinth  of  blossoms.  Crimson 
fuchias,  purple  and  white  petunias,  verbenas  of  every  tint,  roses 
of  every  clime,  heliotrope  and  carnations  made  the  earth  gor 
geous,  and  the  air  soft  with  fragrance. 

The  peaked  roof  shot  up  among  the  branches  of  a  noble  elm 
tree,  and  when  there  was  a  high  wind  I  loved  to  watch  the  old 
rook's  nest  sway  to  and  fro  above  the  chimney  tops,  while  the 
birds  wheeled  and  cowered  among  the  branches  like  widowers 
at  a  funeral. 

The  interior  of  the  house  was  like  a  cabinet.  Pictures  col 
lected  from  abroad,  each  a  gem  that  might  have  been  piled  an 
inch  deep  with  gold  and  its  value  not  yet  obtained,  hung  upon 
the  walls.  Antique  cabinets  of  tortoise-shell  and  gold,  lighted 
up  with  precious  stones,  stood  in  the  principal  room  ;  soft,  easy 
chairs  glowing  with  crimson  velvet ;  tables  of  Sevres  china,  in 
which  beds  of  flowers  and  masses  of  fruit  glowed,  as  if  just 
heaped  together  by  some  child  that  had  overburdened  its  little 
arms  in  the  garden  ;  others  of  that  fine  mosaic  only  to  be 
found  in  Italy  ;  carpets  from  Persia,  from  Turkey,  and  one 
Gobelin,  rendered  that  cottage  one  nest  of  elegance.  Every 
thing  was  in  proportion,  and  selected  with  the  most  discrimina 
ting  taste.  Small  as  the  building  was  compared  to  Greenhurst, 
it  did  not  seem  crowded,  yet  there  was  garnered  up  everything 
that  Lord  Clare  held  most  precious. 

It  was  well  for  us,  for  he  could  not  have  lived  away  from  the 
beautiful.  His  taste,  his  sensuous  enjoyment  of  material  things 
might  gain  new  zest  by  brief  contrasts  of  the  hard  and  the 
coarse,  but  he  would  not  have  endured  them  altogether.  Thus 
it  was  often  said  that  no  man  sustained  himself  under  privation 
or  the  toil  of  travel  better  than  he  did.  He  not  only  endured 


THE     MANSION     AND     THE     COTTAGE.         113 

but  enjoyed  it.  The  effort  sharpened  his  appetite  for  the 
luxurious  and  the  beautiful.  In  his  whole  life,  heart  and  soul, 
he  was  an  epicure.  -  .  ' 

Perhaps  he  had  some  motive  beyond  his  own  convenience  in 
thus  surrounding  my  mother  with  objects  a  queen  might  have 
envied.  He  might  have  wished  to  overwhelm  her  remembrance 
of  the  miserable  gipsy  cave  in  the  ravine  at  Granada  by  this 
superb  contrast,  or  possibly  it  was  only  a  caprice,  a  natural 
desire  to  surround  her  and  himself  with  things  that  enrich  the 
intellect  and  charm  the  sense.  My  mother  thought  it  a  proof 
of  affection,  but  she  was  a  child.  We  often  heap  material 
benefits  on  the  being  who  has  a  right  to  our  devotion  as  an 
atonement  for  the  deeper  feeling  which  the  heart  cannot  render. 
The  man  who  truly  loves  requires  no  stimulant  from  without. 
He  is  always  surrounded  by  the  beautiful. 

Another  might  have  feared  that  this  sudden  change  of  con- 
^ition  would  have  set  awkwardly  on  a  creature  so  untutored  as 
my  mother — for  remember  she  was  a  mere  child,  not  more  than 
sixteen  when  I  was  born — but  genius  adapts  itself  to  every 
thing  ;  and  if  ever  a  woman  of  genius  lived,  that  woman  was 
the  gipsy  wife  of  Lord  Clare.  His  wife,  I  say — his  wife  1 — his 
wife  !  I  will  repeat  it  while  I  have  breath  ;  she  was  his  wife. 
What  had  the  laws  of  England  to  do  with  a  contract  made  in 
Spain  ?  What — but  I  will  not  go  on.  My  blood  burns — the 
wild  Rommany  blood  of  my  mother — it  has  turned  his  blood 
into  fire  that  smoulders,  but  will  not  consume.  There  are 
times  when  I  hate  myself  for  the  English  half  of  life  that  he 
gave  me.  Yet  I  cannot  think  of  him,  so  kind,  so  gentle,  so  full 
of  intellectual  refinement,  without  a  glow  of  admiration.  It  is 
his  people — his  nation — his  laws  that  I  hate,  not  him — not  his 
memory.  Indeed,  at  times,  I  feel  the  tears  crowd  into  my 
eyes  when  I  think  of  him.  My  hate  is  a  bitter  abstraction 
after  all.  When  I  reflect,  it  glides  from  him  like  rain  from  the 
plumage  of  an  eagle. 

You  should  have  seen  my  mother  in  that  beautiful  home 
back  of  the  wilderness  at  Greenhurst.  The  moist  climate  of 


114         THE     MANSION     AND     THE     COTTAGE. 

England  refreshed  her  beauty  like  dew  ;  her  lithe  figure  had 
become  rounded  into  that  graceful  fullness  which  we  find  in 
the  antique  statues  of  Greece,  still  the  elasticity,  the  wild 
freedom  remained.  She  was  more  gentle,  more  quiet,  almost 
sleepily  tranquil,  because  the  fullness  of  her  content  arose  from 
perfect  love  and  perfect  trust.  She  had  left  nothing  in  Spain 
to  regret ;  and  every  hope  that  she  held  in  existence  was 
centred  at  Greenhurst.  Never  did  there  exist  a  creature  so 
'isolated.  She  had  no  being,  no  thought,  save  in  her  husband. 
In  the  wide,  wide  world  he  was  her  only  friend,  her  sole  ac 
quaintance  even. 

I  do  not  think  that  she  left  the  park  once  during  her  whole 
stay  in  England.  The  noble  little  Arabian  that  she  rode  knew 
evefjr  avenue  and  footpath  in  the  enclosure,  but  never  went 
beyond  it.  She  did  not  seem  to  feel  that  there  was  a  world 
outside  the  shadow  of  those  old  trees.  She  felt  not  the  thralls 
of  society,  nor  cared  for  its  mandates  more  than  she  had  done^ 
in  the  barranco  at  Granada  ;  but  a  delicious  and  broad  sense 
of  freedom — an  outgushing  of  her  better  nature  made  this,  her 
new  existence,  perfect  heaven  compared  to  that. 

With  time  her  intellect  had  started  into  vigorous  life.  A 
teacher  so  beloved,  with  perceptions  quick  as  lightning,  had 
kindled  up  the  rich  ore  of  her  nature,  and  you  could  see  the 
flash  of  awakened  genius  in  every  change  of  her  countenance. 
Still  the  world  remained  a  dream  to  her  ;  she  never  thought 
of  human  beings  except  as  they  were  presented  to  her  in  books 
— and  Lord  Clare  selected  every  volume  that  she  read.  He 
was  not  likely  to  present  knowledge  of  conventional  life  to 
a  person  situated  as  she  was,  with  a  mind  so  acute  and  imagin 
ative.  No,  it  was  the  lore  of  past  ages  that  she  studied. 
Those  noble  old  authors  of  Greece  and  Rome  whom  Clare 
understood  so  well,  became  familiar  to  her  as  his  own  voice. 
Without  having  the  least  idea  of  it,  she  was  deeply  imbued 
not  only  with  classical  knowledge,  but  with  the  lofty  feelings 
that  inspired  those  ancient  authors,  who  seldom  find  themselves 
echoed  with  full  tone  in  the  mind  of  woman. 


CONCEALMENTS     AND     SUSPICIONS.        115 

Think  what  a  character  hers  must  have  been,  with  all  this 
grand  poetry  grafted  into  the  wild  gipsy  nature. 

Still  nay  mother  was  not  perfectly  happy  ;  a  vague  want 
haunted  even  her  tranquil  and  luxurious  existence.  It  was 
a  feeling,  not  a  thought,  the  shadowy  longing  of  a  heart  lov 
ing  to  the  centre,  which  finds  half  the  soul  that  should  have 
answered  it  clothed  in  mystery.  She  could  not  account  for  this 
hungry  feeling.  It  was  not  suspicion — it  was  not  a  doubt, 
but  something  deeper  and  intangible.  The  love  which  fills 
a  bosom  like  hers  always  flings  its  own  shadow,  for  love  is 
the  sunshine  of  genius,  and  shadows  ever  follow  the  pathway 
of  the  sun. 

Still,  her  life  was  very  ^appy,  not  the  less  so,  perhaps,  for 
these  wandering  heart-mists.  My  birth  had  its  effect  also,  for 
it  seems  to  me  that  no  woman  thoroughly  sounds  the  depths  of 
her  soul  till  she  becomes  a  mother.  I  have  read  her  journal 
at  this  period,  and  every  sentence  is  a  rich,  wild  gush  of  poetry ; 
you  can  almost  feel  a  torrent  of  blissful  sighs  warming  the 
paper  on  which  she  wrote,  such  as  a  mother  feels  when  the 
first-born  sleeps  upon  her  bosom  for  the  first  time. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

t  -. 

CONCEALMENTS     AND     SUSPICIONS. 

AND  now  I  have  an  existence,  I  am  a  human  soul  growing 
like  a  flower  in  the  warmth  of  that  young  bosom,  flitting 
through  the  house  and  haunting  my  mother's  lap  like  a  bird. 
The  first  memory  that  I  have  is  like  a  starbeam,  as  quick 
and  vivid.  My  mother  sat  in  a  little  room  somewhere  in 
an  angle  of  the  building  just  at  sunset.  Her  hair  was  down; 
the  Spanish  woman  had  unbraided  the  long  tresses,  and  shaken 


116        CONCEALMENTS     AND     B  TJ  8  P  I  C  I  O  N  8  . 

them  apart  in  dark  wavy  masses.  They  fell  over  the  crimson 
cushions  of  her  chair  to  the  ground.  The  sash  doors  were 
open  into  a  stone  balcony  choked  up  with  clematis.  The  sun 
set  came  through  in  golden  flashes,  kindling  up  those  black' 
waves  till  they  shone  with  a,  purple  bloom.  Her  dress  was 
crimson,  of  camel's  hair,  I  think,  with  a  violet  tinge,  and 
flowing  down  her  person  in  soft  folds,  that  glowed  in  the  light 
like  pomegranates  on  the  bough.  Half  over  her  shoulders  and 
half  upon  the  chair,  was  a  cashmere  shawl  of  that  superb  palm- 
leaf  pattern  which  looks  so  quiet,  but  is  so  richly  gorgeous  ; 
a  profusion  of  black  lace  fell  around  her  arms  and  neck,  con 
trasting  the  golden  brown  of  her  complexion.  Her  eyes — 
I  never  saw  such  eyes  in  my  life. — so  large,  so  radiant,  yet 
so  soft ;  the  lashes  were  black  as  jet,  and  curled  upward. 

It  is  useless.  I  can  remember,  but  not  describe  her,  that 
peach-like  bloom,  those  soft  lips  so  full,  so  richly  red.  I  have 
no  idea  where  I  was  at  the  time,  only  that  I  saw  her  sitting 
in  that  room  so  much  like  a  picture,  and  felt  that  she  was 
my  mother.  • 

She  was  looking  into  the  garden  with  an  expression  of 
tranquil  expectation  on  her  face.  I  remember  watching  the 
shadows  from  her  eyelashes  as  they  lay  so  dreamily  on  her 
cheeks,  for  though  she  evidently  expected  some  one,  it  was 
not  with  doubt  ;  she  was  quiet  as  the  sunbeams  that  fell 
around  her,  now  and  then  turning  her  head  a  little  as  the 
Spanish  woman  gathered  up  a  fresh  handful  of  her  hair,  but 
still  with  her  half-shut  eyes  fixed"  upon  the  footpath  that  led 
through  the  wilderness. 

I  sat  down  upon  some  cushions  that  had  been  left  in  the  bal 
cony,  and  watched  her  through  the  open .  sash  till  the  heavy 
folds  of  hair  were  braided  like  a  coronet  over  her  head,  and 
her  look  became  a  little  anxious.  Then  I  too  began  to  gaze 
across  the  intervening  flower  beds  upon  the  footpath,  as  if  a 
share  in  the  watchfulness  belonged  to  me. 

At  last,  as  the  golden  sunset  was  turning  to  violet,  and  one 
felt  the  unseen  dew  as  it  fell,  I  saw,  through  the  purple  mist,  a 


CONCEALMENTS     AND     SUSPICIONS.         117 

man  walking  slowly  along  the  footpath.  My  heart  leaped,  I 
uttered  a  little  shout,  and  clasping  my  hands,  looked  up  to  my 
mother.  Her  lips  were  parted,  and  her  eyes  flashed  like 
diamonds. 

"  It  is  the  Busne — the  Busne,"  I  said. 

She  took  me  in  her  arms,  and  smothering  me  with  glad 
kisses,  murmured,  "  My  Busne,  mine,  mine  1" 

I  answered  back.  "  No,  no,  mine,"  holding  my  hand  to  her 
mouth,  and  still  shouting  "  mine  I" 

Her  beautiful  face  grew  cloudy.  My  words  made  her  res 
tive  :  she  would  not  have  her  entire  right  questioned  even  in 
sport  by  her  own  child.  She  placed  me  upon  the  cushions,  and 
turning  away  entered  the  room  again. 

My  father  came  across  the  flower  garden  with  a  quicker 
pace.  He  held  a  light  basket  in  his  hand  which  I  saw  with  a 
shout,  making  a  desperate  effort  to  clamber  over  the  old  stone 
balustrade,  which  was  at  least  ten  feet  from  the  ground.  He 
held  up  his  hand  reprovingly,  called  for  me  to  go  back,  and 
turning  a  corner  of  the  house,  was  in  the  room  with  my  mother 
before  I  could  disentangle  my  hands  and  clothes  from  the  mul- 
tiflora  and  clematis  vines  into  which  I  had  plunged. 

This  too  was  the  first  time  that  the  person  of  my  father  fixed 
itself  definitely  on  my  remembrance.  He  stood  leaning  over 
my  mother's  chair,  holding  her  head  back  with  a  soft  pressure 
of  the  hand  upon  her  forehead,  and  gazing  down  into  her 
upturned  eyes  with  a  smile  that  might  have  been  playful,  but 
for  a  certain  undercurrent  of  sadness  that  could  not  escape  the 
sharp  perception  of  a  child  like  me.  Yet  even  this  added  to 
the  singular  beauty  of  his  face,  a  strange  type  of  beauty  that 
combined  the  most  delicate  physical  organization  with  a  high 
order  of  mental  strength.  His  forehead,  square  and  high, 
without  being  absolutely  massive,  was  white  as  an  infant's,  and 
in  moments  of  rest  as  smooth.  But  a  painful  thought  or  a 
disturbing  event  would  ripple  over  its. delicate  surface  like  the 
wind  over  a  snow-drift.  The^  brows  grew  heavy  ;  two  faint 
lines  marked  themselves  lengthwise  upon  the  forehead  just 


118        CONCEALMENTS     AND     SUSPICIONS. 

between  the  eyes  ;  a  peculiarity  that  I  have  never  seen  save  in 
persons  of  high  talent.  The  contrast  between  him  and  my 
mother  was.  almost  startling,  he,  so  fair,  so  refined,  so  slender, 
with  a  reservation  as  if  he  concealed  half;  she,  dark,  vivid, 
resplendent,  with  every  impulse  sparkling  in  her  eye  before  it 
reached  the  lip  ;  wild  as  a  bird — uncalculating  as  a  child,  but 
with  passion  and  energy  that  matched  his.  When  two  such 
spirits  move  on  harmoniously  it  is  heaven,  for  the  great  ele 
ments  of  character  are  alike  in  each  ;  but  when  they  clash, 
alas  !  when  they  clash  I 

I  cannot  tell  what  feelings  actuated  my  parents,  or  if  any 
thing  had  happened  to  disturb  them,  but  they  grew  sad,  gaz 
ing  into  each  other's  eyes,  till  with  a  faint  smile  he  dropped 
his  hand  from  her  head,  saying,  "  am  I  late,  Aurora  !" 

She  answered  him,  and  rising  with  a  bright  smile,  drew  the 
shawl  around  her.  He  sat  down  in  her  chair,  and  she  sunk 
noiselessly  as  a  woman  of  the  Orient  down  to  the  cushions. 

I  was  completely  overlooked,  but  if  they  were  forgetful,  I 
was  not.  The  little  basket  stood  upon  the  floor,  where  my 
father  had  placed  it.  I  crept  that  way  softly,  took  up  a  layer  of 
fragrant  blossoms,  and  there,  interspersed  with  vine  leaves,  I  dis 
covered  some  of  the  most  delicious  hothouse  grapes,  purple  and 
amber-hued,  with  peaches  that  seemed  to  have  been  bathed  in 
the  sunset. 

In  my  delight,  I  uttered  an  exclamation.  My  father  looked 
round. 

"  Come  hither,  mischief,"  he  said,  threatening  me  ^with  his 
finger  1"  "  Come  hither  with  the  fruit.  It  is  for  your  mother." 

She  half  started  from  her  cushion,  and  held  out  both  hands, 
as  I  came  tottering  across  the  carpet,  with  tn"e  basket  in  my 
arms.  It  was  for  her,  and  he  brought  it.  That  was  enough  to 
render  anything  precious  ;  besides  the  fruit  was  very  fine,  and 
the  hothouses  at  Greenhurst  had  produced  none  that  season. 
Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  received  the  basket  in  her  lap. 

"  There,"  she  said,  filling  my  greedy  hands  with  a  peach 
and  a  bunch  of  grapes  ;  ""go  away,  little  ungrateful,  to  for- 


CONCEALMENTS     AND      SUSPICIONS.        119 

get  papa's  kiss  in  searching  after  plunder — sit  down  and  be 
quiet." 

I  sat  down,  and  while  devouring  my  fruit,  watched  and 
listened  as  children  will. 

"  How  beautifully  they  are  arranged  !"  said  my  mother,  plac 
ing  and  replacing  the  peaches  with  her  hand,  for  she  had  th°, 
eye  and  taste  of  an  artist ;  "  how  rich,  all  the  exquisite  deli 
cacy  of  spring  blossoms  with  a  fruity  ripeness  !  One  can 
almost  taste  the  fragrance  in  a  peach  ;  at  least,  I  fancy  so." 

"  Your  fancy  would  almost  create  a  reality  1"  said  my  father, 
smiling. 

"  How  beautiful,  how  kind  in  you  to  devote  so  much  time 
and  so  much  taste  all  for  us  I"  continued  my  mother,  lifting  her 
radiant  eyes  to  his;  "for  I  know  who  did  all  this,  not  the  old 
gardener,  nor  dear  good  Turner,  they  could  never  have  blended 
these  leaves." 

"Nay,  nay,"  answered  Lord  Clare,  over  whose  lips  a  mischie 
vous  smile  had  been  playing,  "  do  not  fling  away  so  much 
thankfulness;  neither  the  gardener,  Turner,  or  myself  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  it.  .The  fruit  came  from  some  kind  neighbor, 
I  fancy,  who  wishes  to  break  my  gardener's  heart,  for  not  a 
peach  or  grape  has  ripened  as  yet  under  his  supervision.  I 
found  the  basket  on  a  table  in  my  room,  and  as  it  was  prettily 
arranged,  and  looked  deliciously  ripe,  I  saved  it  for  you  and 
the  child." 

A  shade  came  over  the  superb  eyes  of  my  mother,  but  she 
smiled  and  murmured,  "  Yery  well,  you  brought  them,  that  is 
real  at  least." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  brought  them  sure  enough,"  he  answered, 
laughing,  as  he  watched  me  crowding  one  grape  after  another 
into  my  mouth,  while  I  devoured  the  rest  with  my  eyes. 
"  See,  it  is  one  of  Murillo's  children  eating  grapes.  You  re 
member  the  picture  in  Munich  ?" 

"  Yes,  oh,  it  is  very  like  !  What  eyes  the  creature  has  ! 
How  greedily  she  eats,  she  is  the  picture  itself  1"  and  my  mother 


120        CONCEALMENTS      AND      SUSPICIONS. 

laughed  also,  the  last  thoroughly  gleeful  laugh  that  I  ever 
heard  from  her  lips. 

I  did  not  trouble  myself  about  the  Murillo,  but  the  fruit  was 
delicious,  that  was  quite  enough  for  me,  so  I  shook  my  head 
and  would  have  laughed  too  had  that  been  possible  with  so 
many  grapes  in  my  mouth. 

"  Ah,  what  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  my  mother,  holding  up  a 
rose-colored  note  which  she  had  found  among  the  cape  jessa 
mines  that  lay  in  a  wreath  between  the  basket  and  the  fruit. 

"  This  will  explain  who  has  sent  the  gift,  I  fancy,"  answered 
my  father,  taking  the  note;  "  I  searched  for  something  of  the 
kind  at  first,  but  could  find  nothing." 

He  unfolded  the  paper  carelessly  as  he  spoke.  She  was 
looking  up,  and  I  had  stopped  eating,  curious  to  know  all 
about  it.  I  shall  never  forget  the  change  that  came  over  my 
father  as  the  writing  struck  his  eye.  His  face,  even  to  the 
lips,  whitened.  He  felt  her  gaze  upon  him,  and  crushed  the 
note  in  his  hand,  while  flashes  of  red  came  and  went  across  his 
forehead. 

She  turned  pale  as  death,  and  without  asking  a  question 
stood  up,  swaying  as  if  a  current  of  air  swept  over  her.  Some 
magnetic  influence  must  have  linked  us  three  together.  Surely 
the  pulses  in  my  father's  heart  reached  some  string  in  ours  by 
those  subtle  affinities  that  no  wisdom  has  yet  explained.  I  felt 
a  chill  creeping  over  me ;  the  fruit  lay  neglected  in  my  lap,  I 
cast  it  aside  upon  the  carpet,  and  creeping  to  nay  mother,  clung 
to  her  hand,  hiding  myself  in  the  folds  of  her  robe. 

My  father  still  held  the  note,  gazing  upon  it  in  silence,  buried 
in  thought.  His  face  had  regained  its  pallid  composure ;  he 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  our  presence.  At  length  he  looked 
up,  but  not  at  us,  and  with  a  forced  smile  broke  the  seal.  He 
glanced  at  the  contents,  then  held  it  toward  my  mother  with 
the  same  constrained  air  and  smile  ;  but  his  hand  shook,  and 
even  I  could  see  that  something  very  painful  had  come  over 
him. 

"  From  Marston  Court." 


CONCEALMENTS      AND      SUSPICIONS.        121 

This,  with  a  date,  was  all  the  note  contained.  She  read  it 
over  and  over  again.  It  explained  nothing.  It  was  but  a 
single  sentence,  the  name  of  a  place  of  which  she  had  never 
heard,  but  she  looked  in  his  face  and  remained  pale  as  before. 
The  intuition  of  a  heart  like  hers  is  stronger  than  reason. 

A  constraint  fell  upon  us.  I  crept  away  among  my  cushions, 
and  felt  the  twilight  darken  around  us.  Then  I  sunk  into  a 
heavy-hearted  sleep,  for  my  parents  were  both  silent,  and  I  was 
soon  forgotten. 

When  I  awoke  the  windows  were  -  still  open,  and  the  room 
seemed  empty.  The  moonbeams  lay  white  and  full  upon  the 
clematis  vines,  and  their  blossoms  stirred  beneath  them  like 
masses  of  snow.  Children  always  turn  to  the  light.  Darkness 
seems  unnatural  to  them.  I  crept  out  into  the  balcony,  and 
clambering  up  the  old  balustrade,,  looked  out  on  the  garden. 
Close  by  the  wilderness  where  the  shadows  lay  deepest,  I  saw  a 
man  walking  to  and  fro  like  a  ghost.  Once  he  came  out  into 
the  moonlight,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  my  father. 

A  narrow  flight  of  steps,  choked  up  with  creeping  vines,  ran 
down  from  the  balcony,  I  scrambled  over  them  on  my  hands 
and  knees,  tearing  my  way  through  the  clematis  like  a  wild 
animal,  and  leaving  great  fragments  of  my  dress  behind.  I  ran 
through  the  flower  beds,  trampling  down  their  sweet  growth, 
and  pausing  on  the  verge  of  the  shadow — for  I  was  afraid  of 
the  dark — called  out. 

My  father  came  up  hurriedly  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise, 
and  evidently  alarmed.  His  hat  was  off — his  beautiful  brown 
hair,  damp  and  heavy  with  night  dew — but  his  hands  were 
hot  as  he  lifted  me  up,  and  when  I  clung  to  his  neck  and 
laid  my  cheek  to  his,  it  was  like  fire.  Moonlight  gives  almost 
supernatural  brilliancy  to  the  human  eye.  His  glittered  like 
stars. 

"  My  child,  my  poor  child,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the  matter  ? 
How  came  you  abroad  ?  Your  litte  feet  are  wet  with  dew, 
wet,  clothes  and  all;  what  has  come  over  us,  my  pet,  my  dar 
ling  ?" 

6 


122        CONCEALMENTS     AND      SUSPICIONS. 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it  in  the  moonlight.  It 
was  twelve  o'clock.  Holding  me  close  to  his  bosom,  he  strode 
across  the  garden  and  up  the  steps,  crushing  the  vines  beneath 
his  feet.  There  was  no  light  in  the  chamber,  but  upon  the 
cushion  which  she  had  occupied  at  his  feet  sat  my  mother.  The 
moon  had  mounted  higher,  and  its  light  fell  like  a  great  silver 
flag  through  the  casement.  She  sat  in  the  centre  motionless 
and  drooping  like  a  Magdalene,  with  light  streaming  over  her 
from  the  background,  as  we  sometimes,  but  rarely,  see  in  a  pic 
ture. 

At  the  noise  of  my  father's  footstep,  she  started  up,  and 
came  forth  with  a  wild,  wondering  look. 

"  How  is  this,  Aurora  ?"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  mild  reproof, 
"  I  left  you  with  the  child  hours  ago,  and  now  when  I  thought 
you  both  at  rest,  she  is  wandering  away  in  the  night,  wet 
through  and  shivering  with  cold." 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  When  you  went  out  a  strange  numb 
ness  fell  upon  me.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  in  the  caves  at  Gra 
nada  again,  and  that  all  our  people  were  preparing  to  take  me 
to  the  Valley  of  Stones,  I  was  so  passive,  so  still !" 

"  Aurora  !"  said  my  father,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  reproof,  "  you 
know  how  I  loathe  that  subject — never  mention  it  again — never 
think  of  it  \» 

11 1  never  have  thought  of  it  till  to-night/'  she  answered, 
abstractedly,  "why  should  I?" 

"And  why  to-night  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  My  life  has  two  sides,  one  all  blackness," 
here  she  shuddered — "  the  other  all  light  j  the  barranca  at 
Granada,  and  this  house,  my  grandmother  and  you." 

Her  face  became  radiant  with  affection,  as  she  lifted  it  to  his 
in  the  moonlight. 

"  Why  should  she  come*  between  us  even  in  my  thought  ? 
You  are  here,  you,  my  child,  my  home.  What  has  cast  this 
heavy  burden  on  my  soul  ?  It  is  the  gipsy  blood  beginning  to 
burn  again  :  surely  nothing  has  happened." 

She  questioned  him  closely  with  her  eyes,  thus  pleading  with 


CONCEALMENTS     AND     SUSPICIONS.       123 

him  to  silence  the  vague  doubts  that  haunted  her  ;  he  answered 
faintly, 

"  Nothing,  child,  nothing  has  happened." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  gave  forth  a  faint  laugh. 

"  Ah,  how  strangely  I  have  felt.  It  must  have  been  the 
cold  night  air.  This  England  is  so  chilly,  and  you,  how  damp 
your  clothes  seem.  Your  hair  is  saturated  !  Come  in,  be 
loved,  come  in,  my  poor  child,  my  bird  of  Paradise,  she  will 
perish  I" 

Lord  Clare  bore  me  into  the  chamber.  Lights  were  obtained, 
and  my  wet  garments  were  exchanged  for  a  night  robe  of  deli 
cate  linen. 

"  See  if  I  do  not  take  care  of  her,"  said  my  mother,  folding 
the  cashmere  shawl  around  me,  while  great  tears  crowded  to 
her  eyes,  and  she  looked  timidly  into  his  face. 

" I  do  not  doubt  it,"  he  answered,  kindly,  "she  is  warm  now 
and  getting  drowsy  upon  your  bosom.  Go  to  rest ;  both  need 
it.  -Do  you  know  it  is  after  midnight  ?" 

He  touched  her  forehead  with  his  lips,  and  kissing  me,  pre 
pared  to  go.  She  looked  after  him,  and  her  great  eyes  said  a 
thousand  times  more  than  she  would  have  dared  to  speak. 

He  hesitated,  said  something  about  the  necessity  of  being 
early  at  Greenhurst,  and  then,  as  if  restraint  had  become  irk 
some  beyond  endurance,  laid  his  hand  on  the  stone  balustrade, 
and  leaped  over. 

My  mother  drew  me  closer  and  closer  to  her  bosom,  as  his 
footsteps  died  on  the  still  air.  I  remember  no  more,  only  that 
in  the  morning  I  awoke  in  her  arms  with  the  shawl  folded 
around  me.  She  had  not  been  in  bed  all  night. 


124:  THE      OLD     ESCKITOIK. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE       OLD       ESCRITOIR. 

AFTER  this  night  I  never  remember  to  have  seen  that  rich, 
fruity  smile  upon  my  mother's  lips  again.  Bear  in  mind,  there 
had  been  no  quarrel  between  her  and  Lord  Clare  ;  not  even  a 
hard  word  ;  but  she  loved  him  so  deeply,  so  fatally.  She  who 
had  no  world,  no  thought,  no  existence  that  did  not  partake  of 
him,  and  her  trust  in  him  had  been  like  the  faith  of  a  devotee. 
All  at  once  she  felt  that  he  had  secrets,  thoughts,  memories, 
many  things  long  buried  in  his  heart,  of  which  she  had  no 
knowledge.  She  had  gathered  it  only  from  a  look  ;  but  if  all 
the  angels  of  heaven  had  written  it  out  in  fire  before  her  eyes, 
the  revelation  could  not  have  been  more  perfect. 

And  now  the  proud  tranquillity  of  her  life,  the  rich  content 
ment  of  her  love  departed  forever.  The  gipsy  blood  fired  up 
again  ;  she  was  restless  as  a  wild  bird.  Her  care  of  me 
relaxed.  I  ran  about  the  park  recklessly,  like  the  deer  that 
inhabited  it.  She  rode  out  sometimes  alone,  and  always  at  full 
speed.  I  saw  her  often  talking  with  old  Turner,  and  observed 
that  he  looked  anxious  and  distressed  after  their  conversations. 

She  was  a  proud  creature,  that  young  gipsy  mother,  but  it 
was  a  pride  of  the  soul,  that  which  blends  with  genius  as  pla- 
thia  strengthens  and  beautifies  gold.  All  the  sweet  trusting 
fondness  of  manner  which  had  made  her  love  so  luxurious  and 
dreamy,  changed  to  gentle  sadness.  She  met  Lord  Clare 
meekly  and  with  a  certain  degree  of  grateful  submission,  but 
without  warmth.  It  was  the  humility  which  springs  from 
excess  of  pride.  In  the  whole  range  of  human  feelings  there 
is  not  a  sensation  that  approaches  so  near  to  meekness,  as  the 
pride  of  a  woman  who  feels  a  wrong  but  gives  it  no  utterance. 


THE     OLD      ESCRITOIR.  125 

Lord  Clare  saw  and  understood  this.  You  could  see  it  in  his 
air  ;  in  his  slow  step  as  he  approached  the  house  ;  in  the  anx 
ious  look  with  which  he  always  regarded  my  mother  on  their 
first  meetings.  He  grew  more  tender,  more  solicitous  to  divine 
her  wishes,  but  never  asked  an  explanation  of  the  change  that 
had  come  over  her.  What  was  the  reason  of  this  ?  Why  did 
Lord  Clare  remain  silent  on  a  subject  that  filled  both  their 
thoughts  ?  Those  who  know  the  human  heart  well  can  best 
answer. 

Lord  Clare  had  reached  that  point  in  life  when  we  shrink 
from  new  sources  of  excitement.  I  have  said  that  he  was 
young  only  in  years.  The  romance  of  suffering  had  long  since 
passed  away.  He  was  capable  of  feeling  the  pain,  nothing 
more. 

Close  by  Lord  Clare's  estate,  and  visible  through  the  trees  in 
winter,  when  no  foliage  intervened,  was  an  old  mansion  that 
had  once  been  castellated,  but  modern  art  had  transformed  it 
into  a  noble  dwelling,  leaving  the  old  keep  and  some  prominent 
towers  merely  for  their  picturesque  effect.  A  large  estate  sur 
rounded  it,  sweeping  down,  on  the  north,  to  that  of  Lord 
Clare's,  and  extending  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  toward  the 
mountain  ridges  that  terminated  the  view. 

The  estate  had  belonged  to  a  wealthy  banker  of  London,  one 
of  those  city  men  who  sometimes,  by  their  energies,  sweep  the 
possessions  of  the  peerage  into  their  coffers  with  a  sort  of 
ruthless  magic.  This  man  had  married  a  distant  relative  of 
Lord  Clare — a  lady  who  at  one  time  had  been  an  inmate  of  his 
father's  family.  She  had  married  the  banker  suddenly,  most 
people  supposed  for  his  wealth,  for  she  carried  nething  but  high 
birth  and  connections  to  her  city  bridegroom. 

The  dwelling,  of  which  I  speak,  had  been  purchased  before 
the  marriage,  as  a  surprise  for  the  lady.  Close  to  the  estate 
of  her  young  relative,  almost  regal  in  -'its  splendor,  what  gift 
could  be  more  acceptable  to  the  bride  ?  It  was  purchased, 
renovated,  furnished,  and  settled  upon  her.  On  her  bridal 
morning  only  she  became  aware  of  the  fact.  Those  who  wit- 


12.6  THE     OLD     ESCEITOIE. 

nessed  the  ceremony  saw  that  the  bride  turned  pale,  and  that 
a  strange  look  came  into  her  face  as  she  acknowledged  the 
magnificent  kindness  of  her  bridegroom ;  but  one  brief  visit  was 
all  that  she  made  to  the  estate,  -and  it  became  a  matter  of 
comment  that  Lord  Clare  should  have  started  on  his  foreign 
travels  the  day  before  the  bridal  party  arrived  in  the  neighbor 
hood. 

Now  Mr.  Morton  was  dead,  and  about  this  time  his  widow, 
Lady  Jane,  came  down  to  live  at  the  castle.  Turner  informed 
us  of  this,  but  there  was  something  in  his  manner  that  did  not 
please  me.  His  precise  language,  and  that  sort  of  solemn 
drollery  that  made  him  so  unique,  and  to  us  so  lovable,  aban 
doned  him  as  he  told  this  news.  His  dear,  honest,  eyes 
wavered,  and  there  was  something  wrong  in  his  whole  appear 
ance  that  I  shall  never  forget. 

Another  piece  of  news  he  brought  us  after  this.  Lord  Clare's 
sister,  a  lady  some  years  older  than  himself,  had  arrived  at 
Greenhurst,  and  more  company  was  expected.  This  lady  was 
a  widow,  and  heiress  at  law  to  the  title  and  entailed  estates, 
for  both  descended  alike  to  male  or  female  heir.  My  poor 
mother  knew  nothing  of  all  this;  how  should  she  ?  The  laws, 
and  even  customs  of  England  were  a  sealed  book  to  her.  She 
only  felt  that  strangers  were  intruding  into  her  paradise,  and 
the  shadows  around  her  home  grew  deeper  and  deeper. 

I  fancy  all  this  gossip  was  brought  to  us  by  Lord'  Clare's 
direction,  for  he  never  mentioned  the  subject  himself,  and  poor 
old  Turner  certainly  did  not  seem  to  find  much  pleasure  in  im 
parting,  unpleasant  information.  With  all  his  eccentricities,  he 
was  a  discreet  and  feeling  man. 

I  have  said  that  I  ran  wild  about  the  grounds,  like  a  little 
with  or  fairy.  This  made. me  bold  and  reckless.  I  put  no 
limits  to  my  rambles,  but  trampled  through  flower-beds,  waded 
rivulets,  ancj.  made  myself  acquainted  with  everything  I  met 
without  fear.  Up  to  this  time  I  had  never  entered  the  man 
sion  nor  met  any  of  the  servants  without  avoiding  them. 
Perhaps  I  had  been  directed  to  do  this.  I  cannot  remember  if 


THE     OLD     E6CEITOIR.  127 

it  was  the  command  of  my  mother  or  an  intuition.  But  now  I 
ventured  into  the  garden,  the  graperies,  and  at  length  into  the 
house  itself. 

I  had  not  seen  Lord  Clare  in  several  days,  and  possibly  it 
was  a  longing  for  his  presence  that  gave  me  courage  to  steal  up 
the  broad,  oaken  staircase,  and  along  the  sumptuous  rooms 
that  lay  beyond. 

The  magnificence  did  not  astonish  me,  for  it  was  only  oh  a 
broader  scale  than  the  exquisite  arrangement  of  my  own  pretty 
home;  but  the  stillness,  the  vast  breadth  and  depth  of  the 
apartments  filled  me  with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  I  crept  on,  half 
afraid,  half  curious,  to  see  what  would  come  next. 

At  length  I  found  myself  in  a  little  cabinet.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  small  pictures;  the  carpet  was  like  wood-moss 
gleaming  through  flowers;  two  or  three  crimson  easy-chairs 
stood  around.  On  a  table  lay  some  curious  books  in  bindings 
of  discolored  vellum,  others  glowing  with  purple  and  gold,  the 
ancient  and  modern  in  strong  contrast.  An  escritoir  of  ebony, 
sculptured  an  inch  deep,  and  set  with  precious  stones,  stood 
near  it;  some  papers  lay  upon  the  open  leaf,  and  a  small  drawer 
was  half  out,  in  which  were  other  papers,  folded  and  emitting 
a  faint  perfume. 

Child-like,  I  clambered  up  the  chair  that  stood  before  this 
desk  and  began  tossing  the  papers  about.  Something  flashed 
up  from  the  drawer  like  a  ray  of  light.  I  plunged  my  hand 
in  again  and  drew  forth  a  golden  shell,  frosted  over  with  ridges 
of  orient  pearls  and  edged  with  diamonds.  I  clasped  the  gem 
between  my  hands  and  sprang  down  with  a  glad  little  shout, 
resolved  to  examine  it  at  my  leisure.  Either  the  leap  or  the 
pressure  of  my  hands  opened  the  spring,  and  when  I  sat  down 
on  the  carpet  and  unclosed  my  fingers,  the  shell  flew  open,  and 
I  saw  the  face  of  Lord  Clare.  I  had  not  seen  my  father  in 
some  days,  and  as  if  the  portrait  had  been  himself,  I  fell  to  kiss 
ing  it,  murmuring  over  the  endearing  names  that  his  presence 
always  prompted. 

After  a  little,  my  eyes  fell  on  the  opposite  half  of  the  shell, 


128  THE     OLD     ESCKITOIK. 

and  the  face  that  met  my  gaze  checked  my  joy  ;  it  was  not 
beautiful,  but  a  singular  fascination  hung  about  the  broad  fore 
head  and  the  clear,  greyish  blue  eyes.  The  power  embodied 
there  enthralled  me  more  than  beauty  could  have  done.  My 
murmurs  ceased  ;  my  heart  stopped  its  gleeful  beating  ;  I 
looked  on  the  pair  with  a  sort  of  terror,  yet  could  not 
remove  my  eyes. 

All  at  once  I  heard  steps  in  the  next  room.  Huddling  the 
miniature  up  with  the  folds  of  my  scarlet  dress,  I  sat  upon  the 
floor,  breathless  and  full  of  wild  curiosity,  but  not  afraid.  The 
door  opened  and  Lord  Clare  came  in.  He  did  not  observe  me, 
for  a  cloud  of  lace  from  one  of  the  windows  fell  between  us, 
and  he  sat  down  by  the  desk  wearily  leaning  his  forehead  in 
the  palm  of  one  hand.  I  heard  him  sigh  and  observed  that  he 
moved  his  hand  rapidly  across  his  forehead  two  or  three  times, 
as  if  to  assuage  the  pain  of  some  harassing  thought. 

Still  with  the  miniature  and  some  folds  of  my  dress  huddled 
together,  I  got  up,  and  moving  toward  the  desk  clambered 
softly  up  the  chair  on  which  he  sat.  Putting  one  arm  around 
his  neck.  I  laid  my  head  close  to  his  cheek  and  murmured, 
after  the  fashion  of  my  gipsy  mother,  "  Oh,  my  Busne,  my 
Busne  !" 

He  started  violently  ;  my  weight  drew  back  the  chair,  and  I 
fell  heavily  to  the  carpet. 

"  Child,  child,  how  came  you  here  ?"  cried  my  father,  look 
ing  down  upon  me,  pale  as  death,  and  excited  beyond  anything 
I  had  ever  witnessed,  "  surely,  surely,  your  mother  cannot  have 
brought  you — tell  me,  was  it  Turner — was  it  "- 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered,  forcing  back  the  tears  of  pain  that 
sprung  to  my  eyes,  "  it  was  myself,  not  Turner,  not  mamma, 
only  myself — my  own  self ;  I  came  alone  ;  I  will  go  alone — I 
and  the  pretty  Busne  in  n5y  dress.  That  will  not  throw  me 
down — that  will  not  strike  my  head,  and  fill  my  eyes  with 
sparks  of  fire.  It  is  the  good  Busne,  mamma  and  I  loved — 
it  will  make  her  glad  again.  Let  me  go  out — me  and  the  good 
Busne." 


THE     OLD     E8CRITOIB.  129 

I  still  lay  upon  the  floor,  for  the  blow  against  my  head  made 
it  reel  when  I  attempted  to  move  ;  but  my  hand  clung  to  the 
miniature,  and  a  fierce  spirit  of  rage,  hitherto  unknown,  pos 
sessed  me.  He  stooped  over  me  with  his  old,  gentle  manner, 
and  attempted  to  lift  me  in  his  arms,  but  in  my  rage  I  shrunk 
away. 

"  You  don't  love  me — you  don't  love  mamma,"  I  cried,  fight 
ing  him  back  with  one  hand.  "  She  knows  it — I  know  it,  and 
so  does  good  Turner.  You  go  away  one,  two,  four  days,  and 
all  that  time  she  sits  this  way,  looking  on  the  floor." 

I  straggled  to  a  sitting  posture  and  sunk  into  the  abstracted 
manner  that  had  become  habitual  to  my  mother.  I  do  not 
know  what  chord  of  feelings  was  struck  by  this  position,  but 
tears  crowded  into  his  eyes,  and  dropping  on  one  knee  by  my 
side,  he  laid  a  hand  on  my  head.  I  sprang  up  so  violently  that 
the  miniature  fell  to  my  feet,  glittering  and  open. 

"  Child,  gipsy,  where  did  you  get  this  ?"  he  cried,  white  with 
agitation,  and  seizing  my  arm.  "  There  !"  I  answered,  stamp 
ing  my  foot,  and  pointing  with  my  clenched  hand  to  the  desk. 

"  Who  told  you — how  dare  you  ?" 

"  No  one  told  me — dare,  what  is  that  ?"  I  answered,  meet 
ing  his  pale  anger  with  fire  in  my  heart  and  eyes. 

"  Contaminated  again  by  this  gipsy  gang,"  he  muttered,  gaz 
ing  upon  the  female  face.  "  Jane,  Jane,  to  what  degradation 
you  have  driven  me." 

1  listened  greedily.  The  name  of  that  woman  was  Jane  > 
how  from  that  hour  I  hated  the  sound. 

"  Go  !"  he  said  to  me,  sternly,  "  go  and  never  enter  this 
room  again.  Tell  your  mother  that  this  mad  life  must  have 
an  end.  You  shall  not  run  through  the  estate  like  a  gip — like 
a  wild  animal." 

Every  word  sunk  like  a  drop  of  gall  into  my  heart' — the  bit 
terness — the  scorn — the  angry  mention  of  my  mother's  name, 
I  left  the  miniature  in  his  hand,  and,  with  my  infant  teeth 
scarcely  larger  than  pearls  clenched  hard~  turned  away,  burn 
ing  with  futile  wrath.  He  called  me  back,  but  I  kept  on. 


130    THE  LADY  OF  MAESTON   COURT. 

Again  he  called,  and  his  voice  trembled.  It  only  filled  my 
little  heart  with  scorn  that  a  man  should  not  hold  his  anger 
more  firmly.  In  order  to  avoid  him,  I  fled  like  a  deer  through 
the  spacious  apartments,  ignorant  what  direction  I  ought  to 
take,  but  determined  to  run  anywhere  rather  than  speak  to 
him  again. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE  LADY  OF  MARSTON  COURT. 

I  SPRANG  forward  like  a  hunted  animal,  through  ante-rooms, 
chambers,  halls,  and  galleries.  At  last  I  stood  panting  and 
wild  as  an  uncaged  bird,  in  what  seemed  a  little  summer  par 
lor,  opening  upon  the  most  blooming  nook  of  a  flower  garden. 
Broad  sash  windows  led  to  the  ground,  flooding  the  room  with 
cheerful  light.  If  I  remember  correctly,  for  nothing  but  a  dizzy 
sense  of  luxurious  elegance  reached  me  at  the  time,  the  apart 
ment  was  filled  with  rich,  old-fashioned  furniture,  which  required 
the  graceful  relief  of  embroidered  cushions,  and  a  lavish  supply 
of  flowers  to  make  it  so  cheerful  as  it  seemed. 

All  the  doors  in  that  house  opened  without  noise,  and,  though 
I  rushed  in  madly  enough,  the  carpets  were  too  thick  for  any 
sound  of  my  tumultuous  approach  to  precede  me.  A  lady  sat 
in  one  of  the  low  windows  reading.  I  started  and  held  my 
breath — not  from  fear,  that  from  infancy  had  been  a  sentiment 
unknown  to  me — but  a  terrible  sensation,  which  even  now  I 
can  neither  explain  nor  describe,  seized  upon  me.  The  face  of 
that  woman  was  the  one  I  had  seen,  in  the  miniature.  The 
same  grandeur  of  forehead,  the  same  eyes — not  beautiful  in 
repose,  but  full  of  all  the  latent  elements  of  beauty.  The 
same  blended  strength  and  sweetness  in  the  mouth  and  chin 
was  there. 


THE     LADY      OF     MAKBTON     COUKT.          131 

She  was  in  deep  mourning.  A  crape  bonnet  and  veil  lay  on 
the  sofa  by  her  side,  and  her  golden  hair  contrasted  with  the 
sweeping  sable  of  her  bombazine  dress.  She  was  neither  hand 
some  nor  young,  yet  the  strange  mesmeric  influence  that  sur 
rounded  that  woman  had  a  thousand  times  more  power  over 
those  who  could  feel  it,  than  youth  or  the  most  perfect  loveli 
ness  of  form  and  features  could  have  secured.  Her  influence 
over  me  was  a  sort  of  enchantment.  I  held  my  breath,  and 
remember  feeling  a  deep  sentiment  of  pity  for  my  mother.  I 
had  no  reason  for  this,  and  was  a  mere  child  in  all  things,  but 
the  moment  my  eyes  fell  on  that  woman  they  filled  with  tears 
of  compassion  for  my  mother. 

She  was  reading  and  did  not  know  of  my  presence  ;  but 
after  a  moment  Lord  Clare  came  hastily  forward  in  pursuit  of 
me,  and  though  his  footsteps  gave  forth  no  sound,  and  his 
movements  were  less  rapid  than  mine,  I  could  see  that  she  felt 
his  approach  ;  for  her  pale  cheek  grew  scarlet,  and  I  saw  the 
book  tremble  like  a  leaf  in  her  hand.  He  passed  me,  for  I 
stood  close  to  the  wall,  and  entered  the  room  before  she  looked 
up.  Then  their  eyes  met,  and  hers,  oh,  how  warmly  they 
sparkled  beneath  the  drooping  lids  after  that  first  glance  1 

Lord  Clare  checked  his  footsteps,  stood  a  moment  irresolute, 
then  advanced  toward  her.  She  rose,  and  I  saw  that  both 
trembled,  and  their  voices  were  so  broken  that  some  murmured 
words  passed  between  them  which  escaped  me.  The  first  sen 
tence  that  I  understood  was  from  the  lady. 

"  I  thought  that  your  sister  had  arrived,  and  drove  over, 
'  notwithstanding  your  uncousinly  neglect  of  my  note." 

"  She  is  expected  every  moment,"  answered  Lord  Clare,  in  a 
gentle  but  firm  voice,  for  his  self-possession  had  returned. 

He  sat  down  as  if  forced  to  do  the  honors  of  his  house,  and 
made  some  cold  inquiries  after  the  lady's  health,  but  without 
looking  at  her.  The  lady  was  greatly  agitated,  I  could  see 
that  plainly  enough.  Her  color  came  and  went,  and  if  she 
attempted  to  speak,  her  lips  trembled  and  uttered  no  sound. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Lord  Clare,  and,  in  my  whole  life,  I 


132         THE     LADY      OF     MABSTON     COURT. 

have  never  seen  anything  so  full  of  the  soul's  grandeur  as  those 
eyes  while  they  slowly  filled  with  tears.  They  had  not  uttered 
a  word  for  some  moments,  then  with  a  quiver  not  only  of  the 
lips,  but  of  all  her  features,  she  uttered  his  name. 

"  Clarence." 

He  looked  up  shivering  like  a  leaf  to  the  sound,  and  well  he 
might,  for  never  did  a  proud  woman's  soul  go  more  eloquently 
forth  in  a  single  word. 

"  What  would  yoh  with  me,  Lady  Jane  Morton  ?"  he  said, 
with  that  measured  firmness  which  often  precedes  the  breaking 
down  of  a  man's  stern  will. 

"  I  would  say,"  answered  Lady  Jane,  and  the  tears  rolled 
one  by  one  down  her  burning  cheeks  as  she  spoke,  "  I  would 
say  that  my  pride,  my  stubbornness  has  wronged  you." 

"  It  has  indeed,"  was  the  still  cold  reply. 

"  I  would — I  would  speak  of  my  regret." 

"  What  can  regret  avail  ?  Lady,  tell  me  if  you  have  the 
power — what  can  atone  for  years  of  wasted  youth — affections 
trampled  to  the  dust,  a  life  disturbed  ?" 

"  Ah,  Clarence." 

How  strangely  the  name  sounded.  I  had  never  heard  it  in 
my  life  before,  and  I  am  sure  my  poor  mother  was  ignorant 
that  he  was  called  Clarence.  This  among  the  rest  he  had 
hoarded  from  her. 

"  Oh,  Clarence,  I  feel — I  have  long  felt  how  cruel,  how  un 
grateful,  how  miserably  proud  I  was — but  I,  I,  do  you  think  / 
have  not  suffered  ?" 

Lord  Clare  looked  at  her  suddenly.  An  expression  of  pain 
ful  surprise  came  over  his  pale  features. 

"Why  should  you  have  suffered?"  he  questioned,  almost 
sternly,  "  because  you  pitied  the  man  you  had  scorned  ?" 

"  Because  I  loved  him  I"  -The  words  seemed  wrung  from  the 
very  depths  of  her  heart.  Her  face  fell  forward,  and  she 
buried  its  shame  in  her  hands. 

Lord  Clare  sprang  to  his  feet.  A  glow  of  such  joy  as  I 
have  never  seen  on  a  human  face  before  or  since,  transfigured 


THE     LADY     OF      MABSTON     COURT.         133 

him.  His  eyes  absolutely  blazed  ;  and  a  smile,  oh,  the  glory 
of.  that  smile  poured  its  sunshine  over  his  features.  It  lasted 
but  a  moment,  the  next  that  beautiful  joy  went  out.  Some 
sharp  memory  convulsed  his  features,  and  he  dropped  back  in 
his  seat  again.  His  eyes  had  fallen  upon  me. 

She  looked  up  and  only  saw  the  last  miserable  expression  of 
his  face.  A  faint  groan  burst  from  her  lips,  and  you  could  see 
her  noble  form  shrink  with  a  sense  of  humiliation. 

"  I  know — I  know,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
making'  a  strong  effort  to  subdue  the  anguish  of  disappoint 
ment  that  seized  upon  her — "my  cruelty  has  done  its  work — 
even  the  poor  privileges  of  friendship  cannot  be  ours." 

"  It  is  too  late — too  late,"  said  Lord  Clare,  turning  his  eyes 
almost  fiercely  upon  my  little  form  where  it  crouched  by  the 
wall. 

"  Still,"  said  Lady  Jane,  with  more  firmness,  "  I  must  not 
be  condemned  as  heartless  and  unprincipled  where  my  motives 
were  all  good,  and  my  judgment  only  in  fault.  That  which 
was  self-sacrifice  must  not  rest  in  your  heart  as  perfidy.  I  was 
proud,  unreasonable,  but  as  I  live  all  this  was  from  a  solemn 
conviction  of  right.  I  believed  that  the  love  you  expressed 
for  me  "— 

"  Expressed  1"  said  Lord  Clare,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  reproach. 

"  Felt  for  me  then — for  I  arn  satisfied  that  you  did  love  me 
once." 

Here  Lady  Jane's  assumed  strength  gave  way.  When  we 
speak  of  love  as  a  thing  that  has  been,  what  woman's  heart  is 
there  which  does  not  swell  with  regret  ? 

"  I  did  love  you,"  said  Lord  Clare,  turning  his  eyes  away 
from  the  sight  of  her  tears. 

"  And  do  so  no  longer  ?"  was  the  earnest,  almost  supplicat 
ing  reply.  How  full  of  soul  that  woman  was — what  strange 
fascination  lay  about  her  ! 

"It  is  too  late — I  cannot."  He  met  the  expression  of  her 
eyes,  those  pleading,  wonderful  eyes,  and  added,  "I  dare 
not !" 


134    THE  LADY  OF  MAR 6  TON  COURT. 

She  understood  him.  She  felt  that  her  empire  in  that  heart 
was  there  still,  though  it  might  be  in  ruins.  Still  she  struggled 
hard  to  suppress  the  exhibition  of  this  wild  delight,  but  it 
broke  through  her  tears  like  lightning  among  rain-drops.  It 
dimpled  her  mouth — oh,  she  was  beautiful  then  1  She  strove 
to  conceal  this  heart-tumult,  and  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  floor, 
but  the  lids  glowed  like  rose-leaves,  and  flashes  as  if  from  great 
diamonds  came  through  her  dark  lashes.  Yes — yes,  she  was 
beautiful  then  !  One  moment  of  expression  like  that  is  worth 
a  life-time  of  the  symmetrical  prettiness  which  ordinary  men 
admire  in  common-place  women.  With  the  conviction  of  his 
continued  affection  Lady  Jane  recovered  much  of  her  com 
posure.  Her  manner,  unconsciously  perhaps  to  herself,  became 
gentle,  pleading,  almost  tender.  If  she  wept,  smiles  bright 
ened  through  her  tears.  Now  and  then  her  voice  was  almost 
playful,  and  once  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  there  was  a  faint 
reflection  of  her  mood  upon  Lord  Clare's  face.  Alas  I  my  poor 
mother  ! 

"  We  may  never  mention  this  subject  again,"  she  said,  with 
sweet  meekness,  "  and  now  let  me  say  one  word  in  my  own 
exculpation.  We  were  inmates  of  the  same  family — you  full 
of  youth  in  its  first  bright  vigor — I  your  elder  by  some  years. 
It  was  a  safe  companionship — our  families  never  dreamed  of 
danger.  .  I  full  of  worldly  wisdom,  strong  in  the  un taxed 
strength  of  a  heart  that  had  never  truly  loved,  but  fancied 
itself  tried  to  the  utmost,  would  have  smiled  in  scorn  had 
any  one  predicted  that  which  followed.  You  loved  me  not 
withstanding  my  ye^ars,  my  want  of  beauty,  my  poverty,  you 
loved  me — and  I  loved  you — God  only  knows  how  completely, 
how  fatally  !" 

"  Go  on,"  said  Lord  Clare,  who  listened  breathlessly. 

"  You,"  continued  Lady  Jane,  "  brave,  noble,  generous, 
had  no  dread,  no  false  shame.  You  would  have  made  me  lady 
of  this  mansion,  the  partaker  of  your  bright  young  life.  You 
gloried  in  the  passion  that  won  forgetfulness  of  all  disparity 
between  us,  believing  that  it  would  secure  happiness  to  us 


THE   LADY  OF  MAR 8  TON   COURT.    135 

both.  You  offered  ine  a  hand  which  the  proudest  lady  of 
England  would  have  gloried  in  accepting.  Listen  to  me, 
Clarence,  I  would  at  that  moment  have  given  up  all  my  after 
existence,  could  I  have  been  your  wife  one  year,  certain  that 
the  love  you  expressed  would  have  endured — that  you  would 
never  regret  the  sacrifice  so  readily  made  for  me.  Still,  I 
refused  you — nay,  turned  from  professions  of  affection  that 
were  the  sweetest,  dearest  sounds  that  ever  filled  my  ear. 
You  were  young — I  no  longer  so.  You  were  rich — I  a  poor 
dependent  on  your  father's  bounty.  I  was  a  coward,  I  had 
no  courage  to  brave  the  whispers  which  would  say  that, 
treacherous  to  the  hospitality  of  my  relative,  mercenary,  grasp 
ing,  I  had  used  my  experience  te  entrap  the  young  heir  of 
a  rich  earldom  into  an  unsuitable  marriage.  I  could  not  en 
dure  that  the  disparity  of  our  years  and  my  poverty  should 
become  subjects  of  common  gossip." 

"  How  little  I  cared  for  that !"  said  Lord  Clare,  with  a  con 
strained  smile. 

"  I  koow  it — but  this  very  generosity,  this  self-abnegation 
frightened  me,  I  could  not  believe  in  its  permanency.  It  seemed 
to  me  more  the  thanklessness  of  youth  than  a  stern,  settled 
purpose.  You  had  forbearance  for  my  maturity,  but  I,  un 
grateful  that  I  was,  had  no  faith  in  your  youth." 

"  Did  you  deem  love  a  thing  of  years  ?" 

"  Not  now,  but  then  I  did  !  My  own  feelings  shocked  and 
terrified  me;  they  seemed  unnatural,  I  could  not  forgive  my 
heart  that  they  had  found  lodgment  there.  So  much  more 
absorbing  than  anything  I  had  ever  known,  they  seemed  like  a 
hallucination.  I  distrusted  the  sweet  madness  that  possessed 
me,  and  by  one  rash,  wicked  act,  sought  to  wrench  our  souls 
apart,  thinking  all  the  time  that  your  happiness  required  the 
effort.  I  left  your  father's  house — I — I  placed  an  unloved  man 
between  you  and  me.  I  was  mad,  wicked.  In  one  month 
after,  when  your  father  died,  and  I  had  not  his  scorn  to  dread, 
I  would  have  given  the  world — but  no  matter  what  or  how  I 
have  suffered — you  are  avenged — I  am  punished." 


136         THE     LADY     OF     MAESTON     COURT. 

"  Why  should  we  revert  to  this  ?"  said  Lord  Clare,  gently. 
"  The  past  is  the  past." 

"  I  have  wounded  your  pride  to  save  mine,"  exclaimed  Lady 
Jane,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with  tears  again.  "  It  is  your 
turn  now,  but  if  you  knew — if  you  knew  all,  this  bitter  humili 
ation  would  be  some  atonement." 

"  I  would  not  soothe  my  wounded  pride  at  your  expense, 
Lady  Jane,  still  I  thank  you.  It  is  something  to  know  that  a 
passion  which  cost  me  so  much  was  not  altogether  scorned." 

She  was  about  to  answer  with  some  eagerness,  but  the  sound 
of  a  carriage  sweeping  round  the  broad  gravel  walk  to  the 
front  entrance,  interrupted  her.  They  both  listened,  looking 
earnestly  at  each  other.  Then  she  reached  forth  her  hand, 
and  said,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  Cousin  Clarence,  we  can 
not  be  enemies,  that  is  too  unnatural  "- 

He  wrung  her  hand  with  a  sort  of  passion,  dropped  it,  and 
rushed  from  the  room.  She  stood  a  moment  weeping,  then  her 
mouth  brightened  and  curved  into  a  smile,  and  with  a  proud 
air  she  swept  by  me,  darkening  the  sunshine  with  her  long, 
black  garments.  I  followed  her  with  my  eyes,  creeping  on  my 
hands  and  knees  across  the  threshold  that  I  might  see  her 
again,  and  be  sure  it  was  no  fairy  play  I  had  witnessed. 
Then  I  sat  down  on  the  carpet,  buried  my  face  in  the  embroi 
dery  of  my  scarlet  frock,  and  began  to  cry. ' 

After  a  time,  I  could  not  tell  how  long,  for  my  little  soul  was 
overflowing  with  emotions,  I  felt  a  hand  laid  gently  on  my 
head.  I  started,  shook  the  long  curls  back  from  my  face,  and 
there  was  my  father  bending  over  me.  His  face  was  so  pale 
and  stern  that  I  shrunk  away,  but  he  lifted  me  up  by  the  arm, 
and  grasping  my  hand  till  it  pained  me,  led  me  forth. 

As  we  approached  the  hall,  I  saw  servants  passing  to  and 
fro,  removing  packages,  lap'dogs,  and  cushions  from  a  travelling 
carriage  at  the  door.  A  waiting-maid  stood  in  the  entrance, 
chatting  directions  in  French  and  broken  English,  with  a  pretty 
King  Charles  held  close  to  her  bosom,  which  was  amusing  him 
self  with  the  pink  ribbons  of  her  cap. 


THE     LADY     OF     MAK6TON      COURT.        137" 

"  Where  is  Tip  ?  Will  no  one  bring  up  Tip  ?"  cried  a  voice 
from  the  staircase,  and  directly  I  saw  a  tall,  spare  woman,  with 
the  faintest  pink  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  faintest  bine  in  her 
eyes,  coming  down  the  steps.  She  had  drawn  off  her  gloves 
and  untied  her  travelling  bonnet.  A  few  long,  flaxen  curls 
streamed  down  her  shoulders  with  the  purple  ribbons,  and  one 
sickly  white  hand  glided  down  the  ebony  balustrades. 

"  Bring  up  Tip,  I  cannot  do  anything  without  Tip,"  she 
continued  to  say,  leaning  forward  and  reaching  out  her  arms 
for  the  dog,  which  the  maid  obediently  brought  to  her. 

I  had  a  full  view  of  this  woman  as  she  mounted  the  staircase 
fondling  her  dog,  and  from  that  moment  loathed  her  from  my 
soul.  It  was  Lord  Clare's  sister. 

My  father  paused  and  drew  me  suddenly  back  as  his  sister 
appeared  on  the  stairs.  The  moment  she  was  gone  we  moved 
rapidly  through  the  hall,  took  a  back  entrance,  and  entered  the 
grounds.  He  walked  on  with  long,  stern  strides,  clasping  my 
hand,  but  unconscious  that  I  was  almost  leaping  to  hold  my 
pace  even  with  his.  We  entered  the  wilderness,  and  then,  for 
the  first  time,  my  father  spoke. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  "  look  at  me  here,  in  my  eyes." 

"  I  lifted  my  gaze  to  his  steadily.  His  eyes  were  inflamed 
and  full  of  trouble;  they  fell  before  mine,  and  left  my  little 
heart  burning  with  strange  triumph. 

"  Zana,  you  saw  the  lady  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  heard  all  that  she  was  saying  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  was  she  talking  about  ?     Can  you  tell  me  ?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  she  said,  and  what  you  answered." 

"  Word  for  word  ?"  questioned  my  father,  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  sir,  word  for  word." 

"  And  you  will  repeat  this  to — to  your  mother  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  not." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Lord  Clare,  and  I  saw  that  his  eye  brightened 
with  a  look  of  relief,  "  and  why  not  ?" 


138        THE     LADY     OF     MARSTON     COURT. 

' '  Because  I  will  not.  She  would  hate  that  dark  lady  as  I 
do — she  would  cry  more  and  more — she  would  know  all  about 
it  !" 

"  About  what  ?" 

"  About" — I  hesitated,  no  words  came  to  express  the  ideas 
that  were  fixed  upon  my  mind  so  firmly.  I  knew  as  well  as  he 
did  that  he  loved  that  lady,  and  that  my  mother  was  a  burden, 
but  how  could  the  infant  words  at  my  command  express  a*ll 
this  ?  My  father  seemed  relieved  by  my  hesitation,  and  said 
more  gently, 

"Well,  well,  go  home,  tell  your  mother  that  I  have  com 
pany — my  sister,  you  will  remember — and  that  I  may  not  be 
able  to  see  her  this  evening." 

"  She  can  wait  !"  I  answered,  swelling  with  indignation. 

He  led  me  to  the  verge  of  our  garden,  pointed  along  the  path 
I  should  take,  and  turned  back  without  kissing  me.  I  was 
glad  of  this,  though  he  had  never  done  it  before.  My  little 
soul  was  up  in  arms  against  him. 

I  did  not  go  home,  but  wandered  about  the  wilderness 
searching  for  birds'  nests,  not  because  I  enjoyed  it,  but  a  dread 
of  seeing  my  mother  for  the  first  time  kept  me  in  the  woods. 

Her  life  was  more  quiet  than  ever  after  this,  but  you  would 
not  have  known  her  for  the  same  being.  Her  eyes  grew  larger 
and  so  wild  ;  her  figure  became  lithe  and  tall  again  ;  all  the 
luxuriance  of  her  beauty  fled.  She  suffered  greatly,  even  a 
child  could  see  that. 

Greenhurst  was  filled  with  company,  and  we  seldom  saw 
Lord  Clare.  Turner  came  to  us  every  day,  but  he  too  seemed 
changed.  The  rich,  dry  humor  so  long  a  part  of  his  nature 
forsook  him.  His  visits  were  short,  and  he  said  little.  Thus 
the  season  wore  on,  and  I  suffered  with  the  rest.  How  many 
hours  did  I  remain  at  the  Toot  of  some  great  oak  or  chestnut, 
thinking  of  that  proud  lady  and  her  interview  with  my  father. 
I  kept  my  secret  ;  not  once  had  I  alluded  to  that  strange  visit 
to  the  hall.  It  weighed  upon  me — at  times  almost  choked  me, 
brut  I  felt  that  it  must  remain  my  own  burden. 


MY     FIRST     HEART     TEMPEST.  '139 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

MY     FIRST     HEART     TEMPEST. 

I  HAD  never  seen  a  hunt  in  my  life,  for  though  Lord  Clare 
kept  horses  and  hounds,  they  had  never  been  called  out  since 
our  residence  at  Greenhurst.  But  now,  we  often  heard  the 
sweep  of  horses  and  the  baying  of  dogs  from  the  distant  hills. 

One  day,  I  wandered  off  lured  by  this  novel  sound,  and  lost 
myself  in  a  pretty  valley.  I  am  not  sure  if  it  was  not  beyond 
the  verge  of  our  park,  for  I  exhausted  myself  with  the  fatigue 
of  running  after  the  sound,  and  fell  breathless  upon  the  moss 
beneath  a  clump  of  trees.  While  I  lay  bewildered  and  panting 
with  fatigue,  a  group  of  horsemen  rushed  down  the  valley  in 
full  chase.  Their  red  coats  flashed  between  the  leaves,  and  I 
saw  hound  after  hound  leaping  through  the  brushwood.  They 
disappeared  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  Then  came  the  swift  leap 
of  other  horses,  and  a  lady  appeared  among  the  trees.  Her 
hunter  was  on  the  full  run,  shooting  like  a  thunderbolt  through 
thickets,  and  over  the  broken  ground  with  foam  flashing  from 
his  nostrils,  and  blood  dropping  from  his  mouth  where  the  curb 
had  been  ground  into  it.  The  lady  had  lost  all  control  of  her 
hunter.  She  reeled  in  the  saddle,  and  nothing  but  her  des 
perate  hold  upon  the  rein  kept  her  from  falling. 

I  knew  her,  notwithstanding  the  masculine  hat  and  cravat, 
the  black  skirt  sweeping  behind  her  like  a  thunder-cloud,  and 
the  deathly  paleness  of  her  face.  I  knew  her  the  first  moment, 
and  shrunk  back  into  the  undergrowth,  not  with  fear  but  loath 
ing.  Oh,  how  I  did  hate  that  woman.  Some  persons  think 
children  cannot  hate.  They  never  studied  a  child  like  me. 
She  came  on,  j^ale  as  marble,  reeling  with  exhaustion,  but  with 
a  strong  will  firing  her  eyes  till  they  gleamed  like  stars  beneath 
her  hat.  On  she  came.  The  horse  veered.  A  ravine  lay 


140  MY     FIKST     HEART     TEMPEST. 

before  him.  He  stretched  out  his  limbs  and  plunged  forward. 
She  saw  death  in  the  next  instant,  shrieked,  flung  up  her  arms, 
and  the  horse  leaped  from  under  her,  lost  his  foothold  on  the 
opposite  bank,  reeled  backward  and  fell  with  a  fearful  neigh 
into  the  depths  of  the  ravine. 

I  did  not  move  but  looked  on  waiting  to  see  if  she  would 
stir.  I  had  no  idea  of  death,  but  as  I  saw  her  pale  face  turned 
to  the  .sky,  her  black  garments  sweeping  like  a  pall  down  the 
bank,  and  her  lifeless  hand  lying  so  still  in  the  grass,  a  fierce 
interest  seized  me.  It  was  not  joy,  nor  pity,  nor  hate,  but  I 
thought  of  my  mother,  and  hoped  that  the  stillness  would  last 
forever. 

A  second  horse  came  tearing  his  way  down  the  valley.  A 
scarlet  coat  flashed  before  my  eyes  and  made  me  dizzy.  Some 
one  dismounted,  a  horse  stood  panting  beneath  his  empty  sad 
dle.  The  fiery  glow  of  crimson  mingled  confusedly  with  those 
black  garments  on  the  grass — then  my  sight  cleared,  and  there 
was  my  father  holding  that  woman  in  his  arms — pressing  her 
fra.ntically  to  his  bosom — raining  kisses  upon  her  marble  fore 
head  and  her  white  eyelids.  He  held  her  back  with  his  arms, 
looked  into  her  face,  uttered  wild,  sweet  words  that  made  my 
heart  burn.  Tears  flashed  down  his  cheeks,  and  fell  like  great 
diamonds  in  the  blackness  of  her  dress.  His  grief  made  him 
more  of  a  child  than  I  was. 

He  strained  her  to  his  heart,  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  as  if 
his  own  soul  were  pouring  itself  into  her  bosom. 

"  Jane,  Jane,  my  love,  my  angel,  my  wife,  listen  to  me,  open 
your  eyes  !  you  are  not  dead — not  gone — lost  without  knowing 
how  much  I  love  you.  Oh,  open  those  eyes — draw  one  breath, 
and  I  am  your  slave  forever." 

She  did  not  move,  but  lay  cold  and  still  in  his  arms.  I  was 
glad  of  it  ! 

He  laid  her  upon  the  grass  with  a  groan  that  made  even  me 
start,  and  looked  despairingly  around.  ^ 

"  Will  no  one  come  ? — must  she  die  ? — oh,  my  God,  what  can 
I  do  r 


MY     FIRST     HEART     TEMPEST.  141 

He  stood  a  moment,  mute  and  still,  looking,  oh,  how  steadily, 
how  mournfully  down  upon  her.  Then  speaking  aloud,  and 
with  a  solemnity  that  made  me  tremble,  he  said, 

"  I  have  avoided  her — struggled,  suffered,  tried  to  crush  the 
great  love  that  is  within  me,  and  this  is  the  end  !  What  is  left 
to  me  ?" 

I  saw  a  shudder  pass  over  him,  and  knew  that  he  was  think 
ing  of  ~us — me  and  my  mother. 

Again  his  voice  reached  me,  not  loud,  but  de.ep  and  solemnly 
impressive.  His  mournful  eyes  were  bent  upon  her,  and  he 
slowly  sunk  to  her  side. 

"  Let  her  live — only  live,"  he  said,  "  and  so  help  me  heaven, 
her  own  will  shall  dispose  of  me  !  Let  all  else  perish,  so  she 
but  breathe  again  !" 

I  rose  from  the  ground  and  stood  before  him.  My  little 
hand  was  clenched,  and  my  frame  shook  with  passion  seldom 
known  to  *>ne  of  my  tender  years. 

He  started,  as  if  a  serpent  had  sprung  up  from  the  bosom  of 
that  beloved  one,  gazed  in 'my  eyes  an  instant,  and  then  put  me 
sternly  back  with  his  hand. 

"  Go,"  he  said,  with  a  sharp  breath,  as  if  every  word  were  a 
pain — "  go,  weird  child,  I  ask  not  what  evil  thing  brings  you  to 
search  my  soul  with  those  unnatural  eyes — but  go  and  tell  your 
mother  all  that  you  can  understand  of  this.  Tell  her  that  if 
this  lady  lives,  she  will  be  my  wife — if  not,  I  leave  England 
forever.  Tell  her  all  1" 

"  I  will  tell  her  !"  I  said,  looking  fiercely  into  his  eyes.  "You 
shall  never  see  her  again,  never,  never,  never  1" 

Such  passion  must  have  been  fearful  in  a  little  child.  He 
looked  on  me  with  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  Tell  your  mother  I  will  write,  and  send  Turner  to  her,"  he 
said,  more  gently. 

"  I  will  say  that  you  hate  her  and  love  this  one  !"  was  my 
fierce  reply,  "  That  is  enough  ! — she  will  drop  down  like  stone, 
as  this  one  has  1" 

My  eyes  fell  upon  Lady  Jane  as  I  spoke.     Her  broad  eyelids 


142  MY     FIKST     HEAKT     TEMPE6T. 

quivered,  and  a  faint  motion  disturbed  the  deathly  white  of  her 
lips.  These  signs  of  life  filled  me  with  rage.  I  saw  the  breath 
struggling  to  free  itself,  and,  lifting  my  tiny  foot,  dashed  it  down 
upon  her  bosom,  looking  into  her  face  like  an  infant  fiend  to  see 
if  I  had  trampled  the  coming  life  away.  Her  eyes  slowly 
opened,  as  if  it 'were  to  the  pressure  of  my  foot,  and  then  I 
flew  reeling  back  against  the  bank — my  father  had  struck  me. 

I  rose  and  went  away,  but  without  shedding  a  tear — without 
looking  back.  ^1  have  been  told  that  my  face  was  very  pale 
when  I  reached  home,  but  that  I  was  smiling  steadily  till  the 
teeth  gleamed  between  my  lips. 

When  I  reached  home,  my  mother  was  in  the  little  room  that 
I  have  described,  lying  upon  a  couch,  with  her  large,  sleepless 
eyes  wide  open,  and  gazing  upon  the  window. 

"  Get  up,  mother,"  I  said,  seizing  the  cashmere  shawl  that 
lay  over  her,  and  casting  it  in  a  gorgeous  heap  on  the  floor — 
"  get  up  ;  I  want  to  tell  you  something."  • 

She  rose  with  a  wild  look,  for  my  voice  was  sharp,  and  my 
face  so  strangely  unnatural  that  it  had  the  force  of  command. 

"  Come  out  into  the  garden — into  the  woods,  mother." 

She  followed  me  passively.  I  led  her  down  the  balcony 
steps,  across  the  flower-beds,  and  into  the  wilderness.  It  was 
gloomy  there.  Shadows  lay  thick  among  the  trees,  and  a 
leaden  sky  bent  overhead.  I  liked  it.  In  the  broad  sunshine 
I  could  not  have  told  her.  The  anguish  in  her  face  frightened 
me  even  as  it  was. 

She  heard  me  through  without  uttering  a  word,  but  the 
gleam  of  her  eyes  and  the  whiteness  of  her  face  was  more 
heart-rending  than  the  wildest  complaints.  She  held  my  hand 
all  the  time,  and  as  I  told  her  of  the  scene  I  had  just  witnessed, 
of  his  caresses,  of  the  blow,  her  grip  on  my  fingers  became  like 
a  vice.  But  I  did  not  wince,  her  own  gipsy  blood  was  burning 
hot  in  my  veins. 

I  did  not  sleep  that  night,  but  lay  upon  the  carpet  in  my 
mother's  room,  resolved  not  to  be  taken  away  till  she  was  in 
bed. 


MY    MOTHER'S    LAST    APPEAL.          143 

Turner  was  there  in  the  evening,  and  they  conversed  together 
alone,  for  more  than  an  hour.  The  old  man  left  us,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes.  I  heard  my  mother  say  to  him  in  her  low,  sad 
voice,  for  she  was  always  sad  now, 

"  Do  not  fail  me,  my  good  friend  ;  I  shall  never  ask  another 
favor  of  you,  so  grant  me  this." 

"  Poh,  poh  1"  was  his  answer,  "you  will  ask  five  thousand  ; 
and  I  shall  perform  every  one,  trust  old  Turner  for  that  !" 

But  there  were  tears  in  the  old  man's  voice,  I  was  sure  of 
that.  Aftor  his  departure  my  mother  was  greatly  disturbed, 
walking  the  room,  wringing  her  hands,  and  convulsed  with  the 
tearless  grief  that  rends  one's  heart-strings  so  silently. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

MY      MOTHER    S      LAST      APPEAL. 

WHEN  it  drew  toward  midnight,  and  she  saw  me,  to  all 
appearance,  sleeping  tranquilly  on  the  floor,  I  heard  a  move 
ment  in  the  room  as  if  my  mother  were  preparing  to  go  out. 
I  opened  my  eyes  and  watched. 

She  took  up  the  cashmere  shawl  and  folded  it  over  her  head 
and  person,  leaving  only  the  face  exposed,  after  the  fashion  of 
a  Spanish  mantilla.  Her  face  looked  thin,  but  very  beautiful, 
surrounded  by  those  gorgeous  colors,  for  her  cheeks  were  of  a 
burning  scarlet  ;  and  her  eyes — in  my  life  I  have  never  seen  an 
expression  like  theirs.  It  was  like  the  reflection  of  a  star 
in  deep  waters.  She  stole  out  through  the  balcony.  I  heard 
her  descend  to  the  garden,  and  followed,  actuated,  I  think, 
by  a  vague  dread  that  she  was  about  to  leave  me  forever. 

She  threaded  the  wilderness  with  a  quick  step,  and  kept  her 
way  through  the  grounds  cut  up  into  thickets  and  flower-beds 


that  lay  around  Greenhurst.  I  do  not  think  that  she  had 
ever  been  there  before  in  her  life,  but  she  seemed  to  find  the 
way  by  intuition.  I  followed  close,  but  unseen,  and  to  my  sur 
prise  saw  her  pass  into  the  hall  by  the  back  entrance,  through 
which  Lord  Clare  had  led  me.  The  door  was  not  entirely 
closed  after  her,  and  I  crept  through.  The  hall  was  dark,  but 
she  moved  noiselessly  on,  gliding  like  a  shadow  up  the  broad 
staircase. 

Now  I  was  guided  only  by  the  faint  sipple  of  her  garments, 
for  the  upper  halls  lay  in  perfect  darkness,  and  she  was  more  in 
advance. 

I  saw  by  the  glow  of  light  that  came  into  the  darkness,  that 
a  door  had  been  softly  opened,  in  which  a  lamp  was  burning, 
and  moved  along  the  wall  till  I  stood  in  view  of  a  bed-chamber 
lighted  as  with  moonbeams,  for  a  lamp  had  been  placed  within 
an  alabaster  vase,  evidently  for  this  subduing  purpose.  I  saw 
nothing  distinctly  in  the  room,  but  have  a  vague  remembrance 
of  a  cloud  of  azure  silk  and  rich  lace  brooding  in  one  corner  of 
the  chamber — a  couch  underneath,  white  as  mountain  snow, 
and  on  it  that  woman,  asleep,  and  my  mother  gazing  upon  her. 

The  sleeper  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe.  A  narcotic  influence 
was  evidently  upon  her,  which  had  been  used  to  still  some  pre 
vious  pain ;  but  all  traces  of  anguish  had  departed  from  her 
forehead,  from  which  the  bright  hair  was  swept  back,  giving 
its  broad,  massive  grandeur  to  the  light.  A  halo  of  happiness 
lay  upon  lier  face  that  made  your  breath  come  quick;  the 
wealth  of  a  great -soul  seemed  breaking  over  her  noble  features 
as  she  slept.  The  eyes  underneath  those  broad  lids  were  swim 
ming  in  joy,  that  broke  through  like  perfume  from  the  white 
leaves  of  a  rose.  The  atmosphere  which  hung  about  her 
seemed  warm  and  fragrant,  like  that  of  an  Indian  summer  in 
North  America. 

There  stood  her  contrast,  my  gipsy  mother,  with  the  hot 
blood  of  her  race  burning  in  her  eyes,  her  forehead,  and  that 
now  firm  mouth.  I  looked  in  her  face,  and  thought  she  was 
about  to  spring  upon  her  prey,  for  the  passions  burning  there 


MY  MOTHER'S  LAST  APPEAL.    145 

grew  fierce  as  death.  She  bent  down  and  scrutinized  the 
sleeper,  then  felt  in  her  hair,  and  looked  sharply  around  the 
room,  I  thought  for  some  weapon. 

"  My  oath,  my  oath  !"  she  muttered,  casting  her  great  eyes 
around,  "nothing  but  death  can  separate  us;  why  not  her 
death?" 

I  sprang  forward,  wild  with  terror,  and  caught  hold  of  her 
dress. 

"  Mamma,  oh,  mamma,  come  away,  come  away,"  I  pleaded, 
in  a  whisper. 

She  yielded  to  me,  and  walked  slowly  from  the  chamber,  like 
one  moving  in  a  dream. 

"  Hush  !"  she  said,  as  we  stood  in  the  hall,  "  I  thought  it 
had  been  his  room.  Where  is  it,  child,  you  know  ?" 

"  Come  away — come  away  !"  I  whispered,  still  keeping  a 
firm  grasp  on  her  dress.  "  It  is  dark — I'm  afraid." 

She  broke  from  me,  and  I  lost  her.  The  faint  sound  of  a 
foot  reached  me  once,  but  I  had  no  courage  to  follow,  and 
cowered  down  in  the  hall,  shivering  and  noiseless.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  remained  a  year  in  that  black  stillness.  I  could  en 
dure  it  no  longer,  but  groped  my  way  to  the  staircase  out  into 
the  open  air. 

The  moon  was  up,  but  overwhelmed  by  an  ocean  of  clouds. 
Now  and  then  a  leaden  gleam  broke  out,  and  this  gave  me 
courage*  to  wait  and  watch. 

She  came  forth  at  last,  and  when  I  sprang  toward  her, 
caught  me  firmly  by  the  hand. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  the  oath  falls  back  here — the  gipsy 
blood  will  not  fail  me  when  it  is  only  us." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mamma  ?  Have  you  seen  him,  the 
Busne  ?" 

"  Yes  1" 

"  Was  he  awake,  mamma  ?" 

"  Awake  !"  and  her  laugh  was  fearful.  "  Child,  do  you 
think  he  could  sleep  ? — can  ever  sleep  again  ?" 

"  Did  he  say  anything  ?     Was  he  sorry  for  striking  me  ?" 

7 


"  Hush  1"  said  my  mother,  sharply,  "  he  has  struck  us  both, 
the  body  for  my  child — the  heart  for  me  I" 

"  Did  you  strike  him  back,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  will.  The  stone  that  crushes  me  shall  fall  on  his 
soul." 

Now  I  recognized  my  gipsy  mother.  She  turned  to  me,  and 
a  straggling  moonbeam  touched  her  face. 

"  Zana,  do  you  know  what  an  oath  is'?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  heard  you  mention  the  word  in  your  sleep, 
and  so  asked  Turner." 

"  I  have  sworn  an  oath,  Zana.     Will  you  help'me  keep  it  ?" 

"  I  will  help  you,  mamma." 

"  Let  me  make  you  strong  with  my  kisses,  Zana,  you  are  no 
child." 

I  clung  to  her,  answering  back  that  wild  caress,  for  my  heart 
was  burning  with  a  sense  of  her  wrongs. 

"  I  was  a  child  once,  mother,  but  that  has  all  gone  by.  I 
am  something  else  now;  not  a  woman  like  you,  but  sharper, 
like  a  little  dagger  with  bright  stones  on  the  hilt,  that  you 
sometimes  fasten  up  your  hai?  with.  The  handle  is  so  pretty; 
but  the  point,  isn't  that  sharp  ?" 

"  It  was  well  I  left  it  behind,  to-night,  Zana." 

"  You  could  not  leave  me  behind,  I  would  go  1" 

'*  Are  you  tired,  Zana  ?" 

"No." 

"  Walk  fast  then,  for  we  must  be  a  long  way  from  this  before 
morning." 

"  Where  are  you  going,  mother  ?" 

"  To  keep  my  oath  1" 

We  entered  the  cottage  for  the  last  time.  My  mother  must 
have  anticipated  what  was  to  happen,  for  she  took  me  into  her 
room,  tore  off  my  pretty  scarlet  frock,  and  replaced  it  with  the 
garments  of  a  little  boy.  Her  own  dress  she  changed  also,  and 
we  left  the  house  together,  both  clad  in  male  garments,  and 
each  carrying  a  little  bundle  in  our  hands. 

Where  we  went  first,  I  do  not  know.     The  events  of  that 


MT  MOTHER'S  LAST  APPEAL.    147 

day  and  night  were  burned  upon  my  memory,  but  after  that  I 
had  only  a  vague  idea  of  travelling  day  after  day — of  broad, 
stormy  seas,  a  river  that  ran  with  waves  of  dull  gold,  orange 
groves,  wild  hills,  and  at  last  a  city  in  the  midst  of  beautiful 
plains,  filled  with  antique  houses,  and  beyond  with  snow-capped 
mountains  looming  against  the  sky.  The  grim  towers  of  a  ruin 
fixed  itself  on  my  memory,  frowning  between  the  city  and  those 
mountain-tops,  and  when  I  asked  my  mother  of  the  name  of  this 
city  and  ruin,  she  answered  briefly,  "  Granada,  the  Alhambra," 
nothing  more. 

I  was  not  surprised  at  this,  for  since  we  left  Greenhurst,  she 
had  scarcely  uttered  a  longer  sentence. 

It  was  sunset  when  we  came  in  sight  of  Granada.  She 
paused  in  a  recess  of  the  hills,  and  opening  our  bundles,  changed 
her  dress  and  mine,  casting  away  the  male  attire.  I  remember 
gazing  at  her  with  wonder  as  she  stood  before  me  in  her  strange 
dress.  The  blue  bodice,  the  short  crimson  skirt,  flowered  and 
heavy  with  tarnished  gold,  the  gorgeous  kerchief  knotted  under 
her  chin,  this  dress  had  been  the  contents  of  her  bundle.  Mine 
was  more  simple,  a  frock  of  maize-colored  stuff  broidered  with 
purple.  My  feet  and  ankles  were  bare  to  the  knees. 

My  mother  bent  down  and  kissed  me. 

"  Are  you  a  child  now,  Zana  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  what  you  are." 

"  Come." 

We  descended  into  the  Vega  and  passed  through  Granada 
long  after  dark.  I  was  very  tired  and  faint,  but  kept  up  with 
my  mother,  determined  to  hold  firm  to  my  promise.  During 
our  whole  journey  I  had  not  once  complained.  We  left  the 
city  and  entered  a  deep,  gloomy  ravine,  lighted  "up  by  a  host 
of  internal  fires,  that  seemed  to  burn  in  the  bosom  of  the  hill. 
Wending  along  the  dusty  road,  I  saw  that  all  the  embankment 
was  cut  up  into  holes,  from  which  the  lights  came,  and  that 
these  were  swarming  with  human  beings. 

We  walked  on,  speaking  to  no  one,  till  my  mother  stopped 
before  one  of  these  caves  of  which  the  door  was  shut.  She 


paused,  and  for  one  instant  I  felt  her  tremble,  but  the  emo 
tion  was  gone  in  a  breath,  and  pushing  the  door  open,  she 
went  in. 

A  little  old  woman  sat  in  one  end  of  the  cave,  rocking  to 
and  fro  on  a  wooden  stool,  beneath  the  beams  of  a  smoky  lamp 
that  stood  in  a  niche  over  her  head.  The  creature  arose  as  we 
entered,  passed  one  skeleton  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  muttered 
"  who  comes — who  dares  open  my  door,  when  I  once  shut  it  for 
the  night  ?" 

"  One  who  fears  nothing  now,  not  even  you,  grandame,"  said 
my  mother,  advancing  firmly  up  the  cave. 

The  old  woman  kept  her  hand  above  those  gleaming  eyes, 
and  pored  keenly  over  the  haggard  face  before  her. 

"  Why  have  you  come  back  ?"  she  said,  fiercely. 

"  To  keep  my  oath,  grandame  I" 

"  Your  oath.  Is  he  dead,  then  ?  Is  it  his  blood  that  makes 
your  face  so  white  !" 

"  No,  he  is  safe — it  may  be,  happy,"  answered  my  mother, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  we  left  England,  I  heard  her  voice 
falter.  "  He  repudiates  the  caloe  marriage.  He  loves  another. 
I  saw  her  under  his.roof.  He  will  make  her  his  wife.  Grandame, 
I  have  come  back  to  die.  It  is  all  of  my  oath  that  I  can 
redeem." 

"  Under  his  roof  ?  he  will  marry  her.  Girl,  where  was  Papita's 
poniard,  that  you  did  not  strike  ?" 

"  She  looked  innocent  in  her  sleep.  I  could  not  do  it.  She 
knew  nothing  of  me,  of  my  wrongs,  or  the  vengeance  that 
threatened  her.  A  word  would  have  stabbed  her  deeper  than 
your  poniard,  grandame,  but  I  could  not  speak  it. 

"You  came  away,  and  left  her  alive  ?"  shrieked  the  old  woman 
fiercely. 

"  I  could  not  kill  the  tning  he  loved,"  answered  my  mother, 
with  pale  firmness. 

"  You  came  away,  leaving  these  two  traitors  to  marry  and  scoff 
at  the  gipsy  1" 

"  The  lady  knows  nothing,  and  cannot  scoff  at  us.     He  will 


MY  MOTHER'S  LAST  APPEAL.    149 

never  revile  one  who  could  have  driven  her  from  his  path  by 
pointing  to  his  child,  and  saying  only,  ' he,  has  been  mine!'  but 
chose  rather  to  come  here  and  die." 

"It  is  useless,  graudame — these  frowns,  the  locking  of  those 
sharp  teeth.  The  desperate  have  no  fear.  I  have  disgraced 
my  people,  and  am  ready  to  redeem  my  oath." 

"  And  what  is  this  ?"  said  Papita,  touching  me  with  a  loath 
ing  scowl. 

"  My  child,  and  his,"  answered  my  mother,  and  I  felt  her 
fingers  close  tight  on  my  hand. 

"  Oh,  you  did  well  to  bring  her.  There  is  yet  a  drop  of  the 
old  blood  left  ;  I  see  it  in  her  face." 

The  weird  creature  drew  nearer  and  kissed  me.  I  bore  it 
without  a  shudder. 

"  Can  it  be  to-morrow  ?"  said  my  mother,  calmly,  as  if  she 
had  been  speaking  of  a  June  festival. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  savage  reply.  "  The  people  will  not  wait, 
Chaleco,  most  of  all." 

"  Let  him  be  sent  for." 

"  No,"  said  the  Sibyl  with  a  touch  of  feeling,  "  he  shall  not 
gloat  over  your  shame  more  than  the  rest.  Go  in  yonder — you 
have  broken  one  half  the  oath,  for  the  rest  " — 

"  I  am  ready — I  am  ready,  only  let  it  be  soon,"  said  my 
mother — "  at  daylight." 

"In  yonder  !  daylight  will  soon  come,"  answered  the  SibylM 
pointing  to  the  inner  room.  "I  will  go  and  prepare  the 
people.  They  thought  you  dead.  How  they  will  stare  when 
Papita  tells  them  of  her  trick.  They  think  her  old,  worn  out, 
dull — she  who  can  throw  sand  in  the  eyes  of  a  whole  tribe." 


150  THE     OATH     REDEEMED. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE     OATH     REDEEMED. 

PAPITA  went  out  muttering  hoarsely  to  herself,  as  we  cow 
ered  together  in  that  close  hole.  A  great  tumult  arose  from 
without.  The  tramp  of  feet,  the  hooting  of  voices,  and  wild 
murmurs  drew  near  and  nearer.  My  mother  did  not  tremble, 
but  when  the  door  flew  open,  she  stood  out  in  the  cave,  holding 
me  in  her  arms.  The  light  from  a  dozen  torches  fell  redly 
over  us,  a  hundred  fierce  eyes  glared  in,  and  the  door  was 
blocked  with  grim,  shaggy  human  heads,  all  waving  and  shak 
ing  in  ferocious  astonishment. 

She  stood  before  them,  like  a  dusky  statue,  her  heavy,  raven 
hair  falling  in  masses  down  her  temples,  and  her  pale  hands 
locked  around  me  so  tightly  that  I  breathed  with  pain.  As 
the  torchlight  fell  upon  her  dress,  some  one  in  the  crowd 
recognized  it  as  the  wedding  array  that  had  been  purchased 
for  her  marriage  with  Chaleco,  and  a  low  howl  ran  through  the 
crowd. 

"  She  mocks  us,  she  mocks  us  with  her  shame — take  her 
forth  at  once.  It  is  a  long  way  to  the  mountains,  and  by  day 
light  the  authorities  may  be  upon  us,"  cried  a  stern  voice. 

"  To  the  mountains — to  the  mountains  !"  ran  through  the 
throng,  and  then  one  or  two  from  the  crowd  rushed  in  and 
would  have  seized *my  mother.  But  the  old  Sibyl  placed  her 
self  in  their  way,  confronting  them  with  fierce  wrath. 

"  Her  father  was  a  count,  and  her  father's  father.  It  is 
of  her  own  free  will  she  comes.  Let  her  walk  forth  alone. 
Think  you  that  the  grandchild  of  Papita  is  not  strong  enough 
to  die  ?" 


THE     OATH     REDEEMED.  151 

The  crowd  fell  back,  forming  a  wall  from  each  side  the  door 
up  the  ravine.  Through  this  lane  of  fierce,  human  blood 
hounds  my  mother  walked  firmly,  holding  me  still  in  her  arms. 
By  her  side  went  the  old  Sibyl,  regarding  the  tribe  with  a  look 
of  keen  triumph,  exulting  in  the-  desperate  strength  that  nerved 
their  victim.  She  gazed  on  the  unearthly  brilliancy  of  her 
countenance,  as  the  torch-light  fell  upon  it,  and  cried  out  with 
fierce  ecstasy,  "  see,  it  is  my  soul  in  her  eyes — my  blood  in  her 
cheeks.  Thus  would  old  Papita  go  forth  had  she  tarnished 
the  honor  of  her  people." 

On  we  went,  crowding  upward  through  the  mountain  passes 
till  the  snow  became  thick  beneath  our  feet,  and  Granada  lay 
diminished  and  indistinct  in  the  distance.  The  dawn  found  us 
in  a  hollow  of  the  mountains,  with  snow  peaks  all  around,  and 
half  chokiug  up  the  little  valley.  Nothing  was  seen  but  rocks 
protruding  through  the  virgin  snow,  and  a  group  of  stone 
cairns  peering  through  the  .drifts  in  the  bottom  of  the  valley. 
The  rosy  sunrise  broke  over  the  peaks  as  we  entered  this 
gloomy  pass,  but  it  did  not  penetrate  to  us.  My  mother  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  illuminated  snow,  a  faint  quiver  ran  through 
her  form,  and  I  felt  the  arms  that  supported  me  tremble  I 
threw  myself  upon,  her  neck,  and  clung  there,  weeping.  She 
shivered  in  my  embrace.  I  felt  her  limbs  giving  way,  and 
shrieked  aloud.  She  answered  me  with  a  long,  long  kiss,  that 
froze  itself  into  my  heart,  for  I  knew  that  it  was  the  last. 
Then  she  lifted  up  her  face  and  said,  in  a  clear,  sad  voice,  "  who 
will  take  my  child  ?" 

"  Give  her  to  me,  Aurora  !" 

The  voice  was  full  of  compassion,  and  a  wild,  haggard  man, 
in  the  remnants  of  what  had  been  a  picturesque  costume,  came 
forward  with  his  arms  extended.  His  fierce  heart  had  yielded 
at  last.  There  was  relenting  in  his  gesture  and  voice. 

My  mother  turned  her  eyes  mournfully  upon  him. 

"  I  have  wronged  you,  Ghaleco,  but  now  " — she  turned  her 
eyes  steadily  toward  the  cairns,  and  added,  "  all  will  be  atoned 
for." 


152  THE     OATH     REDEEMED. 

"I  want  no  atonement — I  am  sick  of  revenge,"  was  the  im 
petuous  answer.  "Give  me  your  child." 

"  Chaleco,  one  promise — take  her  back  to  England.  You 
will  find  plenty  of  gold  sewed  up  in  her  dress.  I  was  out  of 
my  mind — mad  to  bring  her  here.  Take  her  back  ;  she  is 
bright  beyond  her  years,  and  will  tell  him  all  better  than  any 
one  else.  Will  you  promise  this,  Chaleco,  for  the  sake  of  old 
times  ?" 

She  smiled  a  pale,  miserable  smile,  as  she  made  the  request. 

"  Give  me  your  child  ;  I  will  take  her  to  England  1"  an 
swered  Chaleco,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

"  That  is  all,"  answered  my  mother,  gently,  "  I  am  ready 
now." 

She  turned  away  her  face,  and  forcing  my  arms  from  her 
neck,  held  me  toward  the  gipsy  chief. 

I  shrieked,  and  struggled  to  get  back,  but  he  folded  my  face 
to  his  bosom,  and  thus  smothering  my  cries,  walked  rapidly 
away. 

Notwithstanding  the  close  pressure  of  his  arms,  I  heard  a 
shriek,  then  the  sound  of  dull,  heavy  blows,  as  if  stone  or  iron 
were  falling  against  some  yielding  substance.  A  groan  burst 
from  Chaleco.  He  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  throwing 
himself  forward,  forced  my  face  down  into  the  snow,  and  buried 
his  own  there  also,  moaning  and  trembling. 

The  blows  grew  duller,  heavier,  and  a  soft,  smothered  noise 
mingled  with  them.  No  other  sound  was  in  the  glen,  not 
a  hum,  not  a  footfall,  nothing  but  these  muffled  sounds,  and 
the  groans  of  Chaleco.  Then  a  hush,  like  that  of  midnight, 
fell  over  us.  Chaleco  held  his  breath,  and  I  struggled  no 
longer  ;  it  seemed  as  if  the  cold  snow  had  struck  to  my  heart. 

At  last  Chaleco  arose,  trembling  with  weakness,  and  taking 
me  in  his  arms  again,  staggered  through  the  snow  down  the 
glen.  The  tribe  stood  in  a  great  circle  round  a  cairn  that  had 
not  existed  when  we  entered  the  "  Valley  of  Stones."  The 
stillness  appalled  me.  I  broke  from  Chaleco's  feeble  hold,  and 
rushed  forward,  calling  for  my  mother. 


THE     OATH     REDEEMED.  153 

The  old  Sibyl  seized  me  by  the  arm,  pointed  to  the  cairn, 
and  answered,  "  She  is  there  !"  I  looked  fearfully  upon  the  stony 
pyramid,  but  saw  nothing,  till  my  eyes  fell  downward  to  the 
snow  at  its  base — it  was  crimson  with  blood.  Then  I  knew 
what  death  was,  and  what  her  oath  meant.  I  grew  sick, 
turned,  and  staggering  toward  the  gipsy  chief,  fell  at  his  feet. 

I  remember,  dimly,  being  in  the  cave  once  more,  and  seeing 
the  old  Sibyl  counting  gold  into  her  lap.  I  remember,  also,  that 
Chaleco  was  there,  and  sfee  said  to  him,  pointing  to  me  : 

"  No,  she  will  not  die,  half  the  oath  only  is  accomplished,  she 
must  do  the  rest." 

Then  the  cairn,  with  its  reddened  base,  came  before  me,  and 
I  fell  away  again. 

Months  must  have  been  oblivion  to  me,  for  my  next  clear 
idea  was  in  England.  I  lay  in  a  canvas  tent  pitched  by  the 
wayside,  half-way  between  Greenhurst  and  the  neighboring  vil 
lage.  Chaleco  and  the  Sibyl  were  with  me,  dressed  after  the 
vagrant  fashion  of  those  broken  tribes  of  our  people  who  infest 
England.  I  was  in  rags,  and  seated  on  the  ground,  wonder 
ing  how  this  change  had  been  made.  Chaleco  stood  by  the 
entrance  of  the  tent  watching  ;  the  old  woman  kept  in  a 
remote  corner,  and  while  I  pondered  over  the  meaning  of  it  all, 
a  merry  chime  of  bells  swept  across  the  fields,  that  made  my 
heart  leap.  I  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  crept  toward  the 
entrance  of  the  tent,-  enticed  by  the  sunlight  that  sparkled  on 
the  sward. 

I  had  placed  myself  at  Chaleco's  feet,  when  the  sound  of  an 
advancing  cavalcade  came  from  toward  the  village.  Chaleco 
shaded  his  eyes,  and  I  saw  them  glow  like  coals  beneath  his 
Hand.  First  came  a  troop  of  children  with  baskets  and  aprons 
full  of  blossoms,  scattering  them  thick  in  the  highway.  Then 
followed  a  carriage,  with  four  black  horses,  streaming  with 
rosettes  and  white  ribbon,  followed  by  others  decorated  after 
the  same  fashion,  and  filled  with  richly  dressed  people.  The 
children  halted,  and  gathered  around  the  first  carriage,  tossing 

7* 


154:  THE     OATH     REDEEMED. 

showers  of  roses  over  its  occupants.  In  the  midst  of  this 
blooming  storm,  I  saw  my  father  and  that  woman.  The  gleam 
of  her  silver  brocade,  the  snowy  softness  of  the  bridal  veil  made 
me  faint  again.  The  snow  drifts  in  the  mountains  of  Spain, 
encrirnsoned  and  trampled,  swept  before  my  dizzy  senses.  As 
I  saw  my  father  half  enveloped  by  the  waves  of  those  glitter 
ing  Jbridal  garments,  but  still  pale  and  looking  so  anxious,  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  those  soft  drifts  had  been  shovelled  over  him 
in  mockery  of  my  mother's  death. 

I  asked  no  question,  but  gathered  from  my  companions,  who 
conversed  in  cautious  tones,  that  Lord  Clare  and  his  bride  would 
rest  some  days  at  Greeuhurst  before  entering  upon  their  wed 
ding  tour.  I  had  no  strength,  no  spirit  then.  Instead  of 
becoming  angry,  I  was  faint,  and  lay  down  in  the  tent,  weeping 
feebly  as  another  child  of  my  years  might  have  done  in  its 
illness. 

I  remember  hearing  shouts,  and  seeing  flashes  of  fireworks 
that  went  off  in  the  village  that  night,  and  I  saw  old  Papita 
and  Chaleco  hold  up  a  small  vial  between  them  and  the  lamp, 
filled  with  a  purple  liquid — then,  as  in  a  dream,  they  passed 
away  from  the  tent. 

It  was  deep  in  the  night,  when  I  started  from  my  sleep. 
Papita  was  shaking  me  by  the  shoulder,  her  face  was  close  to 
mine,  and  it  looked  like  a  death's  head. 

"  Awake  1"  she  said,  reeling  on  her  feet,  as  if  intoxicated. 
"It  is  over — Papita  has  kept  her  oath — the  work  is  done. 
Get  up,  last  of  my  race,  and  see  how  a  woman  of  Egypt  can 
die." 

The  terrible  light  of  her  eyes  fired  me  with  strength.  I 
stood  up,  and  asked  what  she  had  done — why  she  talked  of 
dying. 

"  I  have  left  the  bride  stiff  and  stark  on  her  silken  couch  up 
yonder.  A  drop  of  this — only  one  drop: — in  the  water  which 
sparkled  on  her  toilet  was  enough.  I  stood  by  her  bed  when 
the  bridegroom  came — she,  was  smiling  on  her  pillow.  The 


THE     OATH     REDEEMED.  155 

drao  that  I  distill,  always  leaves  smiles  behind  it.  He  saw  me, 
old  Papita,  whose  blood  he  has  shamed,  whose  wrath  he  has 
braved,  and  while  he  stood  frozen  into  a  statue,  I  glided  away, 
away,  away  forever  !  forever  more." 

She  crooned  over  these  last  words  in  a  low  mutter,  and  sunk 
slowly  down  to  the  earth. 

Chaleco  bent  over  her.  • 

"  Mother  Papita,"  he  said,  "  how  is  this  ?  you  have  not 
drank  of  the  drao  1" 

The  old  woman  gave  a  cough  that  rattled  in  her  throat. 

"  There  was  no  need,  my  count.  Did  you  think  the  old 
frame  would  not  give  out  when  its  work  was  done  ?  I  knew  it 
—I  knew  it.  Come  hither  child,  and  take  '  the  gipsy's  legacy/ 
hate,  hate,  hate  to  the  Busne,  the  enemies  of  our  people." 

She  struggled  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  tore  the  great  ruby 
rings  from  her  ears. 

"  Your  dagger,  Chaleco.     Quick,  quick,"  she  said. 

Chaleco  took  a  poniard  from  his  bosom.  The  Sibyl  seized 
it,  and  thrust  the  sharp  point  through  each  of  my  ears,  then  she 
locked  the  rubies  into  the  wounds,  while  the  blood  trickled 
down  their  antique  settings. 

It  is  your  mother's  blood  that  baptizes  them,  remember." 

As  the  Sibyl  spoke  she  staggered  to  her  feet  and  pressed  her 
cold  hands  upon  my  forehead,  passing  them  down  my  face 
again  and  again.  At  first  the  touch  made  me  shudder  ;  then  a 
feeling  of  dull  calm  came  over  me.  The  excitement  left  my 
nerves,  and  I  lay  like  one  in  a  trance.  The  past  was  all  gone, 
only  a  vivid  consciousness  of  the  present  remained  ;  my  eyes 
were  closed,  my  limbs  still  as  death,  but  my  senses  seized  upon 
every  motion,  every  whisper,  and  locked  them  up  in  my 
memory,  creating  each  instant  a  new  past  for  that  which  had 
left  me. 

"  Now  leave  her  to  the  destiny  that  she  must  surely  work 
out,  Papita's  vow  is  redeemed." 

When  the  old  woman  said  these  words,  her  voice  seemed  far 
off  and  unreal  as  the  echoes  of  some  forgotten  horror.  I  heard 


156  LOST     MEMORIES. 

her  gasp  for  breath  ;  moans  broke  from  her  lips — a  sharp  cry, 
and  her  limbs  fell  together  in  a  heap,  like  a  skeleton  when  its 
wires  give  way. 

For  a  moment  all  was  deathly  stillness,  Chaleco  held  his 
breath — some  brooding  evil  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  tent. 

Still  I  lay  bound  in  that  mesmeric  trance,  conscious,  but 
utterly  helpless.  I  heard.  Chaleco  steal  forth,  and  for  a  long 
time  the  grating  of  a  spade  reached  me  from  the  depths  of  a 
neighboring  hollow.  Then  came  the  fall  of  earth,  spadeful 
after  spadeful,  followed  by  stealthy  footsteps  coming  toward 
the  tent  again. 

Chaleco  came  close  to  me,  stooped  down  and  took  the 
antique  rings  from  my  ears.  I  was  numb  and  could  not  feel 
the  pain  ;  but  consciousness  utterly  left  me  after  that.  The 
iron  thread  of  my  mother's  life  was  woven  into  mine  that  terri 
ble,  terrible  night. 


CHAPTER      XXII. 

LOST    MEMORIES. 

I  FOUND  myself  lying  in  a  gipsy's  tent  perfectly  alone,  dizzy, 
feverish,  and  so  parched  with  thirst  that  it  seemed  to  me  one 
drop  of  water  would  satisfy  every  want  I  could  ever  have  again. 
An  earthen  pitcher  stood  near  the  fresh  hay  on  which  I  was 
lying.  I  reached  forth  my  feeble  hand  and  slanted  it  down,  till 
the  bottom  glistened  on  my  sight.  Then  I  fell  back  weeping. 
It  was  empty,  not  a  drop — not  a  drop  !  How  terrible  was  that 
thirst.  I  felt  the  tears  rushing  down  my  cheek,  and  strove  to 
gather  them  in  my  hand,  thinking,  poor  thing,  to  moisten  my 
burning  lips  with^he  drops  of  my  own  sorrow.  The  wind  blew 
aside  the  fall  of  canvas  that  concealed  the  entrance  to  my  tent, 
and  I  saw  through  it  a  glimpse  of  the  bright  morning  ;  clover 


LOST     MEMORIES.  157 

fields  bathed  in  fragrant  mist  ;  soft,  green  meadow  grasses 
sparkling  with  dew.  Then  the  whole  strength  of  my  being 
centered  in  one  great  wish — water  !  My  wild  eyes  were  turned 
in  every  direction  where  the  soft  drops  seemed  flashing,  dancing, 
leaping  around  me  like  a  whirlwind  of  diamonds.  I  closed  my 
eyes  aud  strove  to  shake  the  hallucination  from  my  brain.  A 
moment's  rest,  and  there  was  another  calm  glimpse  of  the  dewy 
morning.  I  wonder  if  Paradise  ever  looks  half  so  beautiful  to 
the  angels. 

Dizzy  and  fascinated,  I  crept  across  the  tent  on  my  hands 
and  knees,  dragging  the  loose  hay  after  me,  and  moaning  softly 
with  each  strain  upon  my  shrinking  muscles,  till  I  crept  into 
the  deep  verdure.  How  softly  the  cool  dew-drops  rained  over 
me  as  I  lay  down  at  length  in  the  soft  meadow  grass.  My  face, 
my  arms,  and  my  little,  burning  feet  were  bathed  as  with  new 
life.  I  lay  still,  and  laughed  with  a  glee  that  frightened  up  a 
lark  from  her  nest  close  by.  The  young  ones  began  to  flutter, 
and  piped  forth  their  tiny  music  as  if  to  comfort  the  lone  child 
that  had  stolen  to  their  home,  still  more  helpless  than  them 
selves. 

I  swept  my  hand  across  the  grass,  gathering  up  the  dew, 
which  I  drank  greedily.  Then  I  rolled  over  and  over,  bathing 
my  feet  and  my  garments  till  my  face  came  on  a  level  with  the 
young  larks.  They  uttered  a  cry,  and  opened  their  little  golden 
throats  as  if  for  food.  This  brought  the  mother-bird  back 
again,  who  circled  over  and  over  us,  uttering  her  discontent  in 
wild  gushes  of  song.  The  flutter  of  her  pluciage  between  my 
eyes  and  the  sun — the  softened  notes  as  she  grew  comforted  by 
my  stillness — the  flutter  that  seemed  half  smothered  in  thistle- 
down  still  going  on  in  the  nest — the  balmy  air,  the  bath  of 
dew — some,  perhaps  all  of  these  things  slaked  the  fire  in  my 
veins,  and  I  fell  asleep. 

Did  I  dream  ?  Had  I  wandered  off  again  into  delirium,  or 
was  the  thing  real  ?  To  this  day  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  as  I  lay  in 
that  meadow  which  bounded  the  wayside,  a  long  funeral  proces 
sion  crept  by  me,  fringing  tfye  meadow  with  blackness,  aruj 


158  LOST     MEMORIES. 

gliding  away  sadly,  dreamily,  toward  a  village  church,  whose 
spire  cut  between  me  and  the  sky. 

Time  went  by  like  thistle-down  upon  the  wind.  The  sky  was 
purple  above  me.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  great  stars 
twinkled  dreamily  through  the  deep  stillness.  The  dew  lay 
upon  me  like  a  shower.-  I  turned  softly,  and  as  I  moved,  the 
lark  stirred  above  her  young.  My  sleep  had  been  so  like  death 
that  the  bird  feared  me  no  longer. 

If  I  had  a  connected  thought  it  was  this — the  lark  had  come 
back  to  her  young  ;  with  her  soft  bosom  she  kept  them  from 
the  damp  and  cold  night  air.  I  was  young  :  it  was  night :  the 
dew  fell  like  rain  :  I  had  no  strength  to  move.  Where  was  my 
mother  ? 

I  could  not  answer  the  question ;  my  brain  was  too  feeble,  and 
ached  beneath  the  confused  images  that  crowded  upon  it.  The 
funeral  train,  ridges  of  snow,  heaped-up  stones,  flashes  of  crim 
son,  as  if  a  red  mantle  were  floating  over  me,  disjointed  frag 
ments  like  these  were  all  the  answer  that  came  back  to  my 
heart,  as  it  drearily  asked  where  am  I  ?  where  is  my  mother  ? 

Probably  another  day  went  by  ;  I  do  not  know,  for  a  hea 
venly  sleep  settled  on  me.  But  at  last — it  must  have  been 
sometime  near  noon — I  saw  the  lark  settle  down  by  her  nest 
with  some  crumbs  of  bread  in  her  bill.  I  watched  the  young 
ones  as  they  greedily  devoured  it,  and  a  craving  desire  for 
nourishment  stole  over  me.  I  envied  the  little  ragged  bird- 
lings,  and  wondered  how  they  could  be  so  greedy  and  so  selfish. 

The  mother  flew  away  again,  and  I  watched  her  with  longing 
eyes.  She  might  take  compassion  on  my  hunger.  Surely  those 
greedy  young  ones  had  eaten  enough.  She  would  think  of  me 
now. that  they  were  satisfied.  How  eagerly  I  watched  for  some 
dark  speck  in  the  sky,  some  noise  that  should  tell  me  of  her 
return  !  She  came  at  last,  shooting  through  the  atmosphere 
like  an  arrow.  After  whirling  playfully  over,  and  again  above 
our  heads,  she  settled  down  by  her  nest,  and  I  saw  that  her  bill 
was  distended  by  a  fine  blackberry.  The  largest  and  sauciest 
young  one,  who  always*  crowded  his  brethren  down  into  the 


LOST     MEMORIES.  159 

nest  when  food  appeared,  rose  upward  with  a  hungry  flutter 
and  held  his  open  bill  quivering  just  beneath  the  delicious 
berry. 

My  heart  swelled.  I  uttered  an  eager  cry,  and  flung  out  my 
hand.  The  lark,  startled  in  affright,  dropped  the  fruit,  and  it 
fell  into  my  palm.  What  did  I  care  for  the  angry  cry  of  the 
old  bird,  or  the  commotion  among  her  nestlings  ?  The  fruit 
was  melting  away — oh,  how  deliciously ! — between  my  parched 
lips  !  When  that  was  gone,  I  lifted  my  hands  imploringly  to 
the  angry  bird,  and  asked  for  more.  She  was  all  the  friend  I 
had,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  understand  my  terrible  want. 
She  went  away  and  returned  ;  but  oh,  how  my  poor  heart 
ached  when  she  lighted,  and  with  her  eye  turned  saucily  on  me, 
dropped  a  grain  or  two  of  wheat  for  her  young  1 

Tears  crowded  to  my  eyes.  Who  would  aid  me — so  hungry, 
so  miserable,  such  a  little  creature,  more  helpless  than  the  birds 
of  heaven,  and  they  so  pitiless  ?,  I  turned  my  face  away  ;  the 
young  larks  had  become  detestable  to  me.  I  was  tempted  to 
hurt  them,  to  dash  my  hand  down  into  the  nest  and  exterminate 
the  whole  brood  ;  but  the  very  thought  exhausted  me,  and  I 
began  to  weep  again  with  faint  sighs  that  would  have  been  sobs 
of  anguish  but  for  my  prostration. 

I  lifted  my  head  and  strove  to  sit  upright,  looking  wearily 
around  with  a  vague  expectation  of  help.  At  a  little  distance 
was  a  stone  wall,  and  climbing  over  it  a  blackberry  bush  in  full 
fruit,  clusters  on  clusters  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  The  tears 
rained  down  my  cheeks.  I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  young 
larks  and  feebly  laughed  out  my  triumph.  I  crept  forward  on 
my  hands  and  knees,  pulled  myself  along  by  clenching  handsful 
of  the  meadow  grass,  and,  at  length,  found  myself  prostrate 
and  panting  by  the  wall.  Most  of  the  fruit  was  above  my 
reach,  but  some  clusters  fell  low,  and  while  my  breast  was 
heaving  and  my  poor  hands  trembled  with  exhaustion,  I  began 
to  gather  and  eat.  Fortunately,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
pluck  enough  of  the  fruit  to  injure  myself,  and  with  the  grate 
ful  taste  in  my  mouth,  I  lay  contemplating  the  clusters  over- 


160  LOST     MEMORIES. 

head  with  dreamy  longing,  wondering  when  I  should  be  able  to 
climb  up  the  stones  and  gather  them. 

It  is  strange  that  while  my  senses  were  so  acute  in  all  things 
that  pertained  to  my  animal  wants,  all  remembrance  of  the  past 
had  forsaken  me.  I  could  neither  remember  who  I  was,  nor 
how  I  came  to  be  alone  in  the  meadow.  My  whole  range  of 
sympathy  and  existence  went  back  no  farther  than  the  lark's 
nest  and  its  inmates,  that  had  seemed  to  mock  at  my  hunger  in 
the  midst  of  their  own  abundance.  Was  it  from  this  that  I 
drew  my  first  lesson  of  sympathy  for  the  destitute,  and  hate  for 
the  heartless  rich  ? 

Some  vague  remembrance  of  a  tent  that  had  sheltered  me 
did  seem  to  haunt  by  brain;  but  when  I  lifted  myself  up  by  the 
wall  it  had  disappeared,  and  that,  with  the  rest,  floated  away 
into  indistinctness.  It  was  not  that  all  memory  of  the  past  had 
left  me.  I  knew  what  the  relations  of  life  were — knew  well 
that  I  ought  to  have  a  mother  to  care  for  me — some  one  to 
bring  me  food  and  arrange  my  garments;  and,  through  the 
cloudiness  of  my  ideas,  one  beautiful  face  always  looked  down 
upon  me,  like  the  rich,  dark-eyed  women  whom  we  find  repeated, 
and  yet  varied  over  and  over  again  in  Murillo's  pictures.  I 
knew  that  this  face  should  have  been  my  mother's,  but  all 
around  it  was  confused,  like  the  clouds  in  which  the  great  artist 
sometimes  buries  his  most  ideal  heads. 

But  even  this  beautiful  remembrance  was  floating  and  vision 
ary.  I  had  no  strength  to  grasp  a  continued  thought.  Even 
the  aspect  of  nature,  the  meadows,  the  distant  woods,  and  the 
gables  of  a  building  that  shot  up  from  their  midst,  had  a  novel 
aspect.  The  feeble  impression  thus  left  was  like  that  of  bright 
colors  to  an  infant.  I  felt  happier,  more  elastic.  The  world 
seemed  very  beautiful,  and  a  keen  desire  for  action  came  upon 
me.  I  tried  to  walk,  but 'fell  down  like  an  infant  making  its 
first  attempt.  I  made  another  effort,  tottered  on  a  few  paces, 
and  lay  quietly  down  overcome  with  a  desire  to  sleep.  Then  I 
started  again,  creeping,  staggering  a  little  on  my  feet,  resting 
every  few  minutes,  but  all  the  while  making  progress  toward 


LOST     MEMORIES.  161 

the  building  whose  gables  I  had  seen  in  the  distance.  I  had 
no  definite  object;  the  instincts  of  humanity  alone  no  doubt 
induced  me  to  seek  a  human  habitation. 

I  must  have  passed  over  the  spot  where  the  tent  had  stood, 
for  some  loose  hay  littered  the  grass  in  one  place,  and  among 
it  I  found  a  crust  of  dry  bread.  I  uttered  a  low  shout,  and 
seizing  it  with  both  hands,  sat  down  in  the  hay  and  began  to 
eat  voraciously.  Never,  never  have  I  tasted  food  so  delicious. 
I  cannot  think  of  it  yet  without  a  sensation  of  delight  1 

As  I  sat  devouring  the  precious  morsel,  there  came  a  sweet 
noise  to  my  ear — a  soft  gurgle,  that  made  me  pause  in  my 
exquisite  banquet  and  listen.  Old  associations  were  not  alto 
gether  lost.  I  knew  by  the  sound  that  a  spring  or  brook  was 
near,  and  my  joy  broke  forth  in  a  laugh  which  overpowered  the 
flow  of  the  waters.  I  crept  on  toward  the  sound,  hoarding  the 
fragments  of  my  crust.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  spring  gushing 
up  from  the  cleft  in  a  rock  which  lay  cradled  in  a  hollow  close 
by.  The  rock  was  covered  with  moss  and  the  most  delicate 
lichen,  thick  with  tiny,  red  drops,  more  beautiful  than  coral. 
The  water  rushed  down  in  a  single  stream,  slender  and  graceful 
as  the  flight  of  a  silver  arrow,  and  spread  away  with  soft  mur 
murs,  through  the  peppermint  and  cowslips  that  lined  the 
hollow.  I  drank  of  the  water  slowly,  like  a  little  epicure,  en 
joying  the  cool  taste  on  my  lips  with  exquisite  relish.  Then, 
enticed  by  the  fragrance,  I  gathered  a  stem  or  two  of  the  mint, 
arid  laying  the  moist  leaves  on  my  bread,  made  a  meal,  such  as 
one  never  takes  twice  in  a  life-time. 

The  waters  gathered  in  a  pretty  pool  beneath  the  rock,  as 
bright  and  scarcely  larger  than  a  good  sized  mirror.  I  turned, 
after  my  bread  was  exhausted,  and  saw  myself  reflected  in  the 
pool — not  myself  at  the  time,  for  I  supposed  it  another  child — • 
a  poor,  little,  miserable  thing,  in  an  old  dress  of  torn  and  soiled 
embroidery,  whose  original  richness  gave  force  to  its  poverty- 
stricken  raggedness.  Her  little  feet  were .  bare  and  white,  and 
great,  black  eyes,  illuminating  a  miserable  pale  face,  like  lamps 
that  could  never  burn  out,  were  staring  at  me  so  wildly,  that  I 


162  THE     THRESHOLD     OF 

flung  out  my  arms  to  repulse  her.  She  also  flung  up  her  bare 
arms,  and  looked  more  like  a  weird  thing  than  ever.  The 
action  terrified  me.  I  burst  into  tears,  and^  clambered  up  the 
hollow,  looking  back  in  terror  lest  the  starvefi  creature  should 
follow  me. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  THRESHOLD  OF  MY  FATHER'S  HOUSE, 

I  AROSE  and  moved  forward,  still  keeping  the  gables  in  view, 
now  lying  down  on  a  bank  for  rest,  now  pausing  to  gather  a 
wild  berry,  but  always  diminishing  the  distance  between  myself 
and  the  dwelling. 

The  night  came  on,  but  excitement  kept  me  wakeful.  I  had 
no  lonesome  feelings.  The  skies  above  were  crowded  with  stars, 
that  seemed  like  smiling  play-fellows  glad  to  have  me  in  sight. 
The  moonbeams  fell  through  the  branches — for  I  was  be 
neath  trees  now — and  played  around  me  like  a  cloud  of  silver 
butterflies.  Then  came  the  delicious  scent  of  blossoms,  the 
trees  grew  thin,  and  velvet  turf  yielded  luxuriously  to  my  naked 
feet.  Beautiful  flowers  were  budding  around  me,  enameling  the 
turf  in  circles,  mounds,  and  all  sort's  of  intricate  figures.  These, 
like  the  stars,  seemed  old  playmates.  Fuchias,  heliotrope, 
moss  roses — I  recognized  them  with  a  gush  of  joy,  and  talked  to 
them  softly  as  I  stole  along. 

A  hard,  gravel  walk  glistened  before  me,  sweeping  around 
the  proud  old  mansion  whose  gables  I  had  seen.  I  entered  it, 
but  the  gravel  hurt  my  feet,  and  leaving  their  little  prints  in 
dew  upon  it,  I  turned  an  'angle  of  the  building.  Now  something 
of  terror,  a  vague,  dark,  impassable  memory  seemed  floating 
between  me  and  the  stars.  A  shadow  from  the  building  fell 
over  me  like  a  pall.  I  grew  cold  and  began  to  shiver,  but  still 
moved  on  toward  the  moonlight. 


MY    FATHER'S    HOUSE.  163 

It  was  reached.  I  looked  up,  and  before  me  was  a  great 
stone  doorway,  surmounted  with  masses  of  dark  marble, 
chiselled  so  deeply  that  the  hollows  seemed  choked  up  with 
shadows  which  contrasted  densely  with  the  moonbeams  on  the 
surface.  Half  a  dozen  broad,  granite  steps  led  to  the  doorway. 
I  stood  upon  these  steps  and  looked  upward.  A  strange  sen 
sation  crept  over  me.  I  grew  colder,  weaker,  and  sunk  upon 
the  stones  with  my  head  resting  upon  the  door  sill.  A  rush  of 
confused  thoughts  crowded  upon  my  brain  and  stunned  it.  I 
lay  motionless,  but  with  a  vague  idea  of  existence. 

The  first  thing  that  I  remember  was  confused  noises  in  the 
dwelling,  that  sort  of  bee-like  hum  which  accompanies  the  up 
rising  of  a  large  household.  Sometimes  the  sound  of  a  door 
jarred  through  my  whole  frame,  and  then  I  would  drop  away 
into  some  stage  of  unconsciousness;  it  might  be  the  sleep  of 
pure  exhaustion,  or  insensibility,  I  cannot  tell. 

At  last  there  was  a  rustle  and  rush  in  the  hall,  the  sound  of 
feet  and  brooms  set  in  motion,  with  confused  voices  and  the 
ponderous  movement  of  a  door  close  to  my  head,  that  jarred 
through  and  through  me.  A  tumultuous  sound  of  voices  fol 
lowed,  a  hastily-dropped  floor-brush  fell  across  me — laughing, 
exclamations,  bustling  and  noise ;  then  I  heard  a  woman's  voice 
say  distinctly  above  the  rest,  "  Ah  !  here  comes  one  who  knows 
something — he  can  tell  us  what  it  is  !" 

Then  a  voice  followed  that  sharpened,  my  faculties  like  a 
draught  of  wine,  "Well,  what  are  you  chattering  about  the 
door-stead  for,  like  so  many  magpies  around  a  church  steeple  ? 
Can  the  housekeeper  find  you  no  better  business  ?" 

"  Oh,  come  and  see  for  yourself,"  answered  a  peevish  voice, 
"  is  it  a  witch,  an  imp — a — a — do  tell  us,  Mr.  Turner,  you  who 
have  been  in  foreign  parts  and  know  all  sorts  of  outlandish 
creatures  by  heart  ? — look  ! — look  ! — its  great  black  eyes  are 
wide  open  now  ;  you  can  see  them  glistening  through  the  hair 
that  lies  all  sorts  of  ways  over  its  face.  Gracious  me,  they  burn 
into  one  like  a  live  coal  1" 

"Stand  back,"  said  the  male  voice,  "stand  back,  and  let  me 


164  THE     THRESHOLD     OF 

have  room.  The  creature  is  human  !  It  may  be — it  may  be — 
no,  no,  poor,  wild  thing — no,  no,  God  forbid  I" 

The  voice  was  broken,  eager  and  full  of  anxiety.  I  felt  the 
long  hair  parted  back  from  my  forehead,  and  opening  my  eyes, 
saw  a  little,  old  face,  wrinkled  and  contracted,  but  oh,  how 
comforting  ! 

"  Those  great,  wild  eyes — those  lips  pinched,  blue  ! — this 
skeleton  frame — no,  no,  not  hers,  thank  God  for  that,  I  could 
not  have  borne  it  1" 

"What  is  the  creature  ? — what  shall  we  do  with  it  ?"  inquired 
the  female  voice. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  the  old  man,  looking  up  from  my  face, 
"  what  is  it  ?  a  human  soul  almost  leaving  the  body — a  child's 
soul !  What  is  it  ? — don't  you  see,  woman  ?" 

"  Is  it  dying  ?  can  it  speak  ?"  was  the  rejoinder. 

The  old  man  lifted  me  in  his  arms  without  answering,  and 
laid  my  head  on  his  shoulder.  A  strange  gush  of  pleasure 
came  over  me,  and  my  soul  seemed  melting  away  in  tears — 
silent,  quiet  tears,  for  I  was  too  feeble  for  noisy  emotions.  I 
stole  one  arm  around  his  neck,  and  nestled  my  cheek  close  to 
his.  Was  the  action  familiar  to  the  old  man  ?  With  me  it 
was  natural  as  the  infant's  habit  of  lifting  its  hands  to  the  mother's 
mouth,  that  it  may  gather  her  kisses. 

He  did  not  return  the  caress,  but  almost  dropped  me  from 
his  arms.  His  bosom  heaved,  some  exclamation  that  he  seemed 
about  to  utter  broke  into  a  groan,  and  directly  I  felt  tears  run 
ning  down  the  cheek  that  touched  mine. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  about,  Mr.  Turner  ?  What  on  earth 
are  you  thinking  of?  Don't  you  see  how  forlorn  and  ragged 
the  creature  is,  and  holding  it  against  your  new  mourning; 
what  has  come  over  you  ?"  exclaimed  the  housemaid,  horrified 
and  astonished. 

The  old  man  made  no  reply,  but  looked  searchingly  down  on 
my  old  frock,  as  if  it  had  some  deep  interest  to  him. 

"  Yery  well,  every  one  to  his  own  business,"  cried  the  house 
maid,  resenting  his  silence,  "you  hug  that  little  witch  as  if  it 


MY    FATHER'S    HOUSE.  165 

was  your  own — ha,  ha,  who  knows! — who  knows  !  oh,  if  my  lord 
could  but  see  you  1" 

The  old  man  had  been  holding  up  a  fold  of  my  frock  during 
this  speech,  and  was  still  intently  examining  the  soiled  embroid 
ery.  His  thin  face  writhed  and  twitched  in  all  its  features  ; 
but  when  he  dropped  the  fold,  it  settled  into  an  expression  of 
distressing  certainty. 

The  old  man  looked  on  her  with  mournful  sternness. 

"  Before  heaven,  I  wish  he  could  see  us — his  old  servant,  and 
— ancl — tush  !  woman,  go  about  your  work — go  all  !" 

"  I  wonder  how  she  come  here,  at  any  rate,"  persisted  the 
housemaid,  saucily.  "  Gracious  goodness  !  but  the  thing  does 
seem  to  take  to  you,  Mr.  Turner,  so  natural.  Isn't  it  a  sight  to 
behold  r 

11  Peace,  woman!"  cried  the  old  man,  stamping  his  foot  till  it 
rang  on  the  tessellated  floor.  "  Have  you  no  decency  ?" 

"  Decency,  indeed  !" 

As  the  housemaid  tossed  her  head,  with  this  pert  rejoinder,  a 
tall,  haughty  woman  came  through  a  side  door  and  moved 
toward  us.  Her  morning  dress  swept  the  marble  as  she  walked, 
and  long  silken  tassels  swayed  the  cord  slowly  to  and  fro,  which 
bound  the  sumptuous  garment  to  her  waist.  She  held  a  tiny 
dog  in  her  arms,  which  began  to  bark  furiously  as  he  saw 
me. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?"  she  said,  addressing  Turner.  "  Something 
found  on  the  door-step  ? — where  is  it  ?  what  is  it  like  ?" 

"  Very  like  a  hungry,  sick,  dying  little  girl,"  replied  Turner, 
pressing  me  closer  to  him,  "  nothing  more  !" 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  have  you  the  least  idea,  Turner  ?"  cried  the 
lady. 

"  I,  madam — I,  how  can  that  be  ?" 

"Don't  hide  its  face,  Turner.  Is  it  pretty?  Hush,  Tip. 
Jealous  already — there,  there  !" 

While  the  lady  was  soothing  her  dog,  Turner,  with  much 
reluctance  and  many  distortions,  turned  my  head  upon  his 
bosom,  and  the  lady  saw  my  face.  She  started. 


166  MY    FATHER'S    THRESHOLD. 

"  Heavens  ! — why,  it  is  a  perfect  little  animal !"  she  exclaimed,- 
drawing  back.  "What  eyes! — how  frightfully  large!  Mr. 
Turner,  Mr.  Turner,  how  very  imprudent  in  you  !  It  may  be 
contagious  fever  or  small-pox.  Do  take  the  creature  away  !" 

She  drew  slowly  back  while  giving  this  command,  with  a  look 
of  absolute  terror. 

"  Take  her  away — quite  away  !"  she  kept  repeating. 

"  Shall  I  leave  her  on  the  door-steps,  madam  ?"  said  he,  with 
a  sort  of  rebuking  humor. 

There  was  something  so  familiar  about  his  curt,  dry  way  of 
putting  the  question,  that  I  felt  more  at  home  with  him  than 
ever. 

"  Turner — Turner,  this  is  trifling,  inexcusable  !  but  that  you 
are  a  favorite  servant  of  my  poor  brother's,  I  would  not  endure 
it  an  instant." 

"  I  am  a  man  !  At  least  I  was,  till  this  poor,  poor — there  I 
am  at  it  again — till  she  made  me  cry  like  a  baby  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  ;  but  I  will  obey  you — I  will  carry  her  off,  not  that 
her  disease  is  contagious — souls  are  not  catching,  at  any  rate, 
in  this  neighborhood." 

The  old  man  muttered  over  these  last  words  to  himself ; 
then  lifting  his  voice  said  in  a  more  respectful  tone,  "  Madam, 
your  orders — where  am  I  to  place  the  child  ?" 

"  Anywhere.  It  is  not  of  the  least  consequence-  -take  it 
dowfl  to  the  village.  I  fancy  some  of  the  tenants  would  like  it 
of  all  things.  I  have  no  right  to  receive  incunibrances  in  Lord 
Clare's  house  during  his  absence." 

"  Lord  Clare  never  sent  a  starving  fellow-creature  from  his 
door  yet,"  answered  Turner,  stoutly.  "  It  is  not  in  him." 

"  Starving  ? — what  horrible  words!  Why,  no  one  starves  on 
this  estate." 

Turner  did  not  listen.'  He  was  looking  down  into  my  face, 
his  countenance  stirring  as  one  who  ponders  over  a  painful  sub 
ject.  I.  lay  feebly  in  his  arms,  contented  as  a  lamb,  my  little 
heart  beating  tenderly  against  his  bosom.  *At  last  he  carried 
me  out  into  the  open  air. 


A     PAEADI8E     OF     BEST.  167 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A     PARADISE     OF     REST. 

TURNER  walked  fast,  without  speaking,  till  the  shadow  of 
some  tall  trees  fell  over  us,  then  his  step  grew  heavier,  and  he 
looked  in  my  face  from  time  to  time,  with  an  expression  of 
strange  tenderness. 

"  Do  you  remember  me  ?"  he  said  at  last,  but  in  a  hesitating- 
whisper. 

I  struggled  hard  with  my  weakness,  and  tried  to  think. 

"Speak,  little  one,  we  are  all  alone,  don't  be  afraid  of  me, 
old  Turner  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  murmured  faintly  enough,  "  she  called  you 
Turner.'7 

"  She  I  what  she  are  you  talking  of,  little  one  ?" 

"  The  tall  lady  up  yonder  with  the  dog,"  I  -answered  ;  for 
struggle  as  I  would,  my  mind  refused  to  go  farther  back. 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  strange  expression. 

"  Then  it  was  not  your — your  mother  ?" 

Instantly  that  face  half  buried  in  clouds  came  before  me. 

"  She — my  mother  never  speaks,"  I  said,  "  she  looks  at  me 
through  the  clouds,  but  does  not  say  a  word." 

He  stopped,  gazed  at  me  wistfully  a  moment,  and  then  bend 
ing  his  head  closer  to  mine,  whispered,  "  Tell  me,  tell  old 
Turner,  where  is  she  ?" 

«  She — who  ?"  I  whispered  back. 

"  Your  mother,  Aurora — your  mother,  child." 

"  I  don't  know,  she  was  here  just  now."' 

"  Here  1"  he  said,  looking  around,  "  here  ?" 

"  Did  you  not  see  her  face  among  the  clouds,  close  down 
here,  a  minute  ago  ?  I  did." 


168  A     PARADISE     OF     KE6T. 

He  felt  my  cheek  with  his  palm,  took  holdyof  my  hands  and 
feet — "  She  has  no  fever,"  he  muttered,  "  what  does  all  this 
mean  ?" 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  after  a  little,  "  where  did  you  go — you 
and  your  mother  ?" 

"  Nowhere." 

"  What,  was  she  in  the  neighborhood  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Not — speak,  child  !  not  within  a  few  weeks,  not  since 
Lady  Clare  died  ?" 

"  I  think  she  is  always  with  me,  but  the  lark  fed  her  young 
ones  when  they  wanted  something  to  eat,  but  she  never  fed  me, 
and  I  was  very,  very  hungry.  Why  did  she  look  upon  me 
from  the  clouds,  but  never  give  me  one  morsel  to  eat  or  a  drop 
to  drink  ?" 

"  Poor  child — poor,  poor  child,"  said  the  old  man,  kissing 
me,  oh,  how  tenderly — "  try  and  think — make  one  effort — I  do 
so  want  to  know  the  truth — where  have  you  been  these  many 
mouths  ?" 

I  tried  to  think,  but  it  confused  me,  and  at  last  I  answered, 
with  starting  tears, 

"Indeed,  I  do  not  know." 

He  bent  his  face  close  to  mine,  and  kissed  away  the  tears 
that  stood  on  my  cheeks — then  he  questioned  me  again. 

"  Is  your  mother  dead  ?" 

Dead  !  the  word  struck  like  cold  iron  upon  my  heart.  I  shud 
dered  on  the  old  man's  bosom.  My  brain  ached  with  the 
weight  of  some  painful  memory,  but  it  gave  back  no  distinct 
answer.  It  seemed  as  if  his  question  had  heaped  mountains  of 
snow  around  me,  but  I  could  only  reply, 

"  Dead,  what  is  that  ?" 

He  heaved  a  deep  groan  and  walked  on,  muttering  strangely 
to  himself. 

I  knew  that  he  was  carrying  me  over  innumerable  flower 
beds,  for  the  air  was  rich  with  the  scent  of  heliotrope  and 
flowering  daphnas,  the  breath  of  my  old  playmates.  Then  he 


A     PARADISE     OF     REST.  169 

mounted  np  some  steps,  tearing  his  way  through  a  quantity 
of  vines,  and  forcing  open  a  sash  window  with  his  foot,  carried 
me  in. 

It  was  a  luxurious  apartment,  but  very  gloomy,  and  silent 
as  a  catacomb.  The  shutters  were  closed,  the  air  unwholesome 
and  heavy  with  the  odor  of  dead  flowers.  I  saw  nothing 
distinctly,  though  my  eyes  roved  with  a  sort  of  fascination  from 
object  to  object.  Something  deeper  than  memory  stirred  in  my 
soul.  A  dullness  seized  me,  and  I  longed  to  go  away. 

Turner  passed  on,  evidently  glad  to  leave  the  chamber,  and 
did  not  pause  again  till  we  reached  a  room  that  was  smaller 
and  more  cheerful.  He  held  me  with  one  arm,  and  with  his 
right  hand  threw  open  the  shutters. 

The  sash  was  a  single  piece  of  plate-glass,  transparent  as 
water.  Curtains  of  gossamer  lace  and  rose-colored  silk  fell 
over  it,  through  which  the  morning  sunshine  glowed  like  the 
dawning  of  a  rainbow. 

The  old  man  made  me  sit  up  in  his  arms  and  look  around 
while  he  curiously  regarded  my  face.  I  have  said  the  room 
was  flooded  with  soft  light.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
hangings  of  a  delicate  tint,  sprinkled  with  rose  buds.  A  carpet 
of  snowy  ground,  with  bouquets  of  gorgeous  flowers  scattered 
over  it,  as  if  in  veritable  bloom,  covered  the  floor.  A  diminu 
tive  easy-chair  and  sofa,  cushioned  with  rose-colored  silk  stood 
opposite  to  a  small  bed  of  gilded  ivory,  gleaming  through  a 
cloud  of  gossamer  lace,  which  fell  in  soft,  snowy  waves  from 
a  small  hoop  of  white  and  gold,  like  the  bedstead,  swung  to 
the  ceiling  by  a  cord  and  tassel  of  silk,  twisted  with  golden 
threads. 

Turner  looked  at  me  anxiously,  as  my  eyes  wandered  around 
this  beautiful  room,  fitted  up  evidently  for  a  child — for  the 
bedstead  was  scarcely  larger  than  a  crib,  and  everything  bore 
evidence  of  a  very  youthful  occupant. 

A  pleasant  sensation  crept  over  me,  as  I  gazed  languidly 
around,  The  atmosphere  seemed  familiar,  and  I  felt  a  smile 
stealing  to  my  mouth. 

8 


170  A     PARADISE     OF     REST. 

Turner  saw  it,  and  almost  laughed  through  the  tears  that 
were  clouding  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  like  this  ?"  he  whispered,  softly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  so  much  !" 

"  Shall  I  put  you  into  that  pretty  bed  ?" 

" No,  no  !"  I  shrieked,  with  a  sudden  pang,  "it  is  white 
like  a  snow-drift ;  I  would  rather  go  back  to  the  meadow  <ind 
sleep  with  the  larks." 

The  old  man  looked  sad  again.  He  carried  me  close  to  the 
bed,  and  put  some  folds  of  the  curtain  in  my  hand  ;  but  I 
shrank  back  appalled  by  their  unmixed  whiteness.  He  could 
not  comprehend  this  shuddering  recoil,  but  sought  to  remove 
the  cause.  Curtains  of  silk,  like  those  at  the  window,  were 
looped  through  the  ivory  hoop.  These  he  shook  loose  till 
they  mingled  in  bright  blossom  colored  waves  with  the  lace. 
Then  I  began  to  smile  again,  and  a  sweet  home  feeling  stole 
over  me. 

Turner  carried  me  in  his  arms  to  the  door  and  called  aloud. 
A  woman  answered,  and  came  into  the  room.  When  her  eyes 
fell  upon  me  they  dilated,  grew  larger,  and  she  uttered  a  few 
rapid  words  in  some  language  that  I  did  not  understand. 
Turner  answered  her  in  the  same  tongue,  then  all  at  once  she 
fell  upon  her  knees,  and  raising  her  clasped  hands  began  to 
weep. 

Turner  addressed  her  again,  and  with  eager  haste  she  pre 
pared  a  bath,  brought  forth  night  clothes  of  the  finest  linen, 
and  laid  me  in  the  bed  exhausted,  but  tranquil  and  sleepy. 

I  heard  Turner  and  the  woman  moving  softly  around  my 
bed.  I  knew  that  tears  and  kisses  were  left  upon  my  face, 
and  then  I  slept,  oh,  how  sweetly  1 

Ah,  what  heavenly  dreams  possessed  me  during  the  days  and 
weeks  which  I  spent  in  that  delightful  little  chamber  I  The  de 
lirium  which  accompanied  my  relapse  into  fever  was  like  an  ex 
perience  in  fairy  land.  Fantastic  as  the  visions  that-  haunted 
me  were,  the  most  glowing  changes  of  beauty  broke  through 
them  all.  Music  floated  by  me  on  each  breath  of  air  that 


A     PARADISE     OF     KE8T.  171 

gushed  through  the  windows.  Every  sunbeam  that  stole 
through  the  gossamer  curtains  arched  over  me  like  a  rainbow. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  whole  clouds  of  humming-birds  floated 
through  the  room,  filling  it  with  the  faint  music  of  their  wings. 
Then  the  pretty  myths  were  chased  away  by  fantastic  little 
creatures  in  human  form;  smiling,  fluttering,  and  full  of  the 
most  exquisite  fun,  they  trampled  over  my  bed,  and  nestled, 
mischievously,  among  the  blossom-colored  hangings.  I  became 
wild  with  admiration  of  their  rosy  bloom,  of  their  comical  ways. 
I  laughed  at  their  pranks  by  the  hour,  and  strove  with  insane 
glee  to  catch  them  with  my  hand,  or  imprison  them  under  the 
bed-clothes.  But  they  always  evaded  me,  making  the  most 
grotesque  faces  at  my  baffled  efforts.  I  could  ~see  them  waltz 
ing  in  dozens  upon  the  counterpane,  and  sitting  upon  my  pillow 
tangling  their  tiny  hands  and  feet  in  my  hair,  shouting,  laugh 
ing,  and  turning  summersets  like  little  mad-caps  whenever  I 
made  a  dart  at  them  with  my  hands.  So  we  kept  it  up,  these 
exquisite  little  imps,  night  and  day,  for  we  never  slept — not  we  ! 
the  fun  was  too  good  for  that ! 

There  were  only  two  of  these  creatures  that  did  not  seem  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and  they  were  so  odd,  such  droll,  tearful, 
melancholy  things,  that  somehow  their  faces  always  made  us 
stop  laughing,  though  we  could  not  suppress  a  giggle  now  and 
then  at  their  solemn  and  sentimental  way  of  doing  things. 

One  was  a  queer  little  sprite,  that  looked  so  exquisitely  droll 
with  that  tiny  hat  set  upon  his  powdered  hair,  and  the  face 
underneath  so  comically  anxious,  that  it  quite  broke  my  heart 
to  look  at  the  little  fellow  standing  there  with  the  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

I  remember  puzzling  myself  a  long  time  regarding  the  mate 
rials  which  composed  his  vest  and  small  clothes,  and  of  satisfy 
ing  myself  that  they  must  have  been  made  from  the  leaves  of  a 
tiger  lily,  peony,  or  some  other  great  crimson  blossom.  The 
grave,  drab  coat,  with  its  red  facings,  the  golden  buckles  and 
hat,  defied  my  imagination  altogether;  but  the  face,  that 
anxious  face,  was  dear  old  Turner's,  withered  up  to  the  size  of 


172  A     PARADISE     OF     REST. 

a  crab-apple.  It  seemed  so  sad,  so  mournful,  I  quite  pitied 
him,  but  somehow  couldn't  keep  from  laughing  at  the  priggish 
little  figure  he  cut.  Then  there  was  a  funny  little  woman,  just 
the  least  bit  shorter,  in  a  blue  dress  and  large  cap,  held  up  by 
the  queerest  high-backed  comb  that  spread  out  the  crown  like 
a  fan.  Her  face  was  older  and  darker  than  the  rest,  a  Spanish 
face,  with  something  kind  in  it  that  sometimes  kept  me  quiet 
minutes  together.  These  two  figures  really  saddened  us — the 
rosy  troop  of  sprites  and  myself — with  their  grave  faces  and 
muttered  consultations  with  each  other,  as  if  life  and  death  de 
pended  on  what  they  were  talking  about. 

Then  the  scene  would  change.  These  elfin  revellers  disap 
peared.  Flashes  of  lightning  and  clouds  of  cold  white  snow 
came  slowly  over  me,  drifting,  drifting,  drifting;  and  in  their 
midst  that  beautiful  face,  so  icy,  so  white,  with  its  great, 
mournful  eyes  looking  down  into  mine,  hour  after  hour — it 
haunted  me  then,  it  has  haunted  me  ever  since.  Yet  no  fear 
ever  came  upon  me;  no  superstitious  dread  crept  through  my 
frame ;  but  a  dullness,  as  if  mountain  snow  were  around  me, 
nothing  more. 

At  last  this  strange  phantasmagoria  cleared  away;  the 
elves  gave  up  their  gambols*  and  disappeared,  all  but  the  old 
man  and  the  woman.  They  gradually  grew  larger,  and  I  knew 
that  they  were  the  good  Spanish  woman  and  Turner. 

How  tenderly  these  two  persons  nursed  me  during  the  slow' 
convalescence  that  followed  !  How  ardent  was  the  love  I 
gave  back  for  this  care,  for  mine  was  an  impassioned  nature  ! 
Every  sensation  that  I  knew,  love,  hate,  grief,  fear — nay,  not 
fear,  I  think  that  was  unknown  to  my  nature  from  the  first  ! — 
but  all  other  sensations  were  passions  in  me.  Generous  senti 
ments  predominated  with  me  always.  '  I  say  this  when  my  life 
lies  before  me  like  a  map,  and  every  impulse  of  my  soul  has 
been  analyzed  with  impartiality,  and  knowledge  more  searching 
than  any  man  or  woman  ever  gathered  from  the  actions  of  his 
fellow  man. 

I  saw  Turner  at  rtated  periods,  when  he  could  escape  from 


A     PARADISE     OF     REST.  173 

Greenhurst  to  inquire  after  my  comforts,  and  caress  me  in  his 
quaint,  tender  fashion.  I  had  learned  to  watch  for  the  hour  of 
his  coming  with  the  most  ardent  impatience.  He  always  brought 
me  some  pretty  gift,  if  it  were  only  a  branch  of  hawthorn  in 
flower,  an  early  crocus,  or  a  hatful  of  violets.  He  was  an  old, 
kind-hearted  bachelor,  and  the  poor  child  who  had  crept  to  his 
feet  from  the  way-side,  became  the  very  pet  and  darling  of  a 
heart  that  had  but  one  other  idol  on  earth,  and  that  was  Lord 
Clare,  his  master. 

Maria  and  I  were  alone  in  the  -house.  The  language  in  which 
she  addressed  me  was  not  that  which  I  spoke  with  Turner,  but 
her  caresses,  her  eager  love  were  even  more  demonstrative  than 
his.  There  was  a  pathos  and  power  in  her  expressions  of 
tenderness  that  he  doubtless  felt,  but  could  not  manifest  in  his 
own  rougher  language.  She  carried  me  in  her  arms  while  I 
was  unable  to  walk,  and  sat  by  me  as  I  played  wearily  with 
the  rich  toys,  of  which  she  found  an  endless  variety  in  the 
closets  and  hidden  places  about  the  cottage.  , 

I  spoke  her  language  well  and  without  effort,  for  it  seemed 
more  native  to  my  tongue  than  the  English;  and  sometimes  I 
would  address  Turner  in  some  of  its  rich  terms  of  endearment, 
but  he  always  checked  me  with  a  grimace,  as  if  the  sound  were 
hateful. 

There  was  another  language,  too,  of  which  I  had  learned  the 
sounds,  but  whether  it  was  of  human  origin,  or  something  that 
I  had  gathered  from  the  wild  birds,  I  could  not  tell.  It  had  a 
meaning  to  me,  but  no  one  else  understood  it,  and  so,  like  the 
feelings  to  which  this  strange  gift  alone  gave  utterance,  it  was 
locked  up  in  my  heart  to  be  hoarded  and  pondered  over  in 
secret. 


174:  MYSELF     AND     MY      SHADOW. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

MYSELF      AND      MY      ^H  A  D  0  W  . 

I  DO  not  know  how  Turner  managed  to  establish  me  in  this 
luxurious  home,  but  Lord  Clare  had  left  him  with  power  to  act, 
and  I  suppose  he  exercised  it  in  my  behalf,  without  consulting 
Lady  Catherine.  In  fact,  the  cottage  had  for  years  been  con 
sidered  as  his  residence. 

I  grew  stronger  and  more  contented  as  time  went  on.  The 
stillness,  the  bright  atmosphere,  and  the  love  with  which  I  was 
surrounded,  hushed  my  soul  back  into  childhood  again,  for  up  to 
this  time  I  can  remember  but  few  thoughts  or  sensations  that 
partook  of  my  infant  years. 

In  truth,  there  was  something  fairy-like  in  my  position,  well 
calculated  to  excite  an  imagination  vivid  as  mine  to  most  un 
healthy  action.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  a 
child  of  the  air,  for  my  first  memory  went  back  to  the  lark's  nest 
in  the  meadow;  and  my  earliest  idea  of  enjoyment  was  rich  with 
bird  music.  Good  as  Turner  and  Maria  were,  it  never  entered 
my  mind  to  consider  myself  as  absolutely  belonging  to  them, 
more  subtle  and  refined  affinities  existed  within  me. 

Everything  that  surrounded  me  was  calculated  to  excite  these 
feelings.  The  utmost  prodigality  of  wealth  could  have  supplied 
nothing  of  the  beautiful  or  refined  which  was  not  mysteriously 
bestowed  on  me.  The  clothes  I  wore,  my  toys  and  books  were 
of  the  most  exquisite  richness.  The  texture  of  everything  I 
touched  was  of  peculiar  delicacy  ;  thus  a  natural  worship  of  the 
beautiful,  inherent  hi  my  nature,  was  fed  and  pampered  as  if  by 
magic.  The  house  contained  a  library  of  richly  bound  books, 
in  many  languages,  mostly  classical,  or  on  subjects  of  foreign 
interest.  Few  romances  were  among  the  collection,  but  the 
poets  of  all  countries  were  well  represented.  The  best  poetry 


MYSELF     AND     MY      SHADOW.  175 

of  Italy,  Germany  and  Spain,  the  ancient  classics,  and  mytholo 
gical  subjects  predominated.     Many  of  these  volumes  were  in 
the  original  language,  but  there  was  no  lack  of  English  transla 
tions.     The  most  remarkable  thing  about  this  collection  was  an 
entire  deficiency  in  the  works  of  native  authors.     A  few  of  the 
poets  were  to  be  found,  Milton  and  two  or  three  others,  but 
everything  calculated  to  give  an  insight  into  the  social  life  or 
history  of  England,  seemed  to  have  been  excluded  with  vigilance. 
The  small  hexagonal  room  which  contained  these  books  was 
connected  with  my  sleeping-chamber  by  a  small  gallery  lined 
with  pictures.     Two  or  three  statuettes,  copies  from  the  great 
masters,  occupied  pedestals  in  this  gallery,  and  the  lights  were 
so  arranged  that  every  inspiration  of  the  genius  that  had  given 
life  to  the  canvas  or  the  marble,  was  thrown  forward  as  by  a 
kindred  mind.     This  room  and  its  gallery,  unlike  most  of  the 
other  apartments,  were  left  unlocked,  and,  with  my  imagination 
on  fire  with  the  legends  in  which  Maria  was  constantly  indulg 
ing,  I  loved  to  wander  along  the  gallery,  and  ponder  over  the 
pictures,  filling  each  landscape  with  some  scene  of  active  life, 
and  reading  a  destiny  in  the  strange  faces  that  looked  down 
upon  *ne  from  the  wall. 

But  more  especially  did  the  statuettes  become  objects  of  admira 
tion,  probably  because  they  touched  some  latent  talent  of  my  own, 
and  awoke  a  desire  of  emulation.  Even  at  this  early  period  of 
my  life,  I  felt  an  appreciation  of  the  beauty  in  form  and  propor 
tion  so  exquisitely  maintained  in  these  objects,  keen  as  the 
desire  of  a  hungry  person  for  food.  An  awkward  position,  an 
ill  arranged  article  of  furniture,  cross  lights  upon  a  picture, 
anything  which  outraged  that  exquisite  sense  of  the  perfect, 
which  has  been  both  my  happiness  and  my  bane,  was  as  vivid 
with  me  before  I  knew  a  rule  of  art  as  it  is  now 

So  with  this  inherent  sense  of  the  beautiful  guiding  me  like  a 
sunbeam,  I  made  play-fellows  of  the  breathing  marble  and  of 
pictures  so  rare,  as  I  have  since  learned,  that  a  monarch  might 
have  coveted  them.  I  grew  ambitious  to  emulate  the  marble 
in  my  own  person,  and  amused  myself,  hour  after  hour,  in  prac- 


176  MYSELF     AND     MY      SHADOW. 

tising  the  graceful  position  which  each  maintained  on  its  pedes 
tal.  This  grew  tiresome  at  length,  and  impelled  by  the  genius 
within  me,  I  began  to  invent  and  arrange  new  combinations  for 
myself,  before  the  large  mirror  that  reflected  back  the  gallery 
and  all  it  contained,  when  my  chamber  door  was  open. 

Was  I  struck  by  the  vision  of  childish  beauty  that  broke 
upon  uie  from  the  mirror  during  these  efforts  ?  Yes  !  as  I  was 
pleased  with  the  paintings  upon  the  wall,  or  the  statues  that 
gleamed  in  their  chaste  beauty  around  me.  I  loved  the  wild, 
little  creature  that  stood  mocking  my  gestures  in  the  mirror, 
because  she  was  more  brilliant  than  the  paintings,  and  more 
life-like  than  the  marble — because  her  arch  eyes  were  so  full 
of  the  life  that  glowed  in  my  own  bosom.  Ah,  yes,  I  loved  the 
child.  Why  not  ?  She  alone  seemed  my  equal.  I  did  not 
reflect  that  she  was  the  shadow  of  myself,  or  in  truth  identify 
her  with  my  own  existence  at  all.  She  seemed  to  me  like  a 
new  picture  going  through  another  progression  toward  life. 
They  were  so  changeless  ;  but  she  was  variable  as  a  humming 
bird.  She  smiled,  moved,  looked  a  thousand  things  from  those 
great  flashing  eyes.  Oh,  if  she  could  have  spoken,  I  was  sure 
in  my  heart  that  she  might  have  uttered  that  strange,  hidden 
-  language  of  mine. 

So  I  met  the  wild,  little  beauty  each  day  in  the  mirror. 
Every  graceful  curve  and  line  of  the  statues  had  become  fami 
liar,  and  almost  wearisome  to  me,  but  here  was  infinite  variety 
changing  at  my  will.  She  was  my  slave,  my  subject,  a  being 
over  whom  I  had  absolute  control  ;  and  this  was  the  first  idea 
that  I  ever  had  of  companionship. 

In  the  library  I  found  some  books  still  done  up  in  brown 
paper  packages,  as  if  ordered  for  some  purpose  and  forgotten. 
These,  of  course,  became  objects  of  especial  curiosity  to  a  child 
always  on  the  alert  for  'discoveries.  They  were  juvenile  vol 
umes,  richly  illustrated,  containing  all  the  fairy  tales,  I  do 
believe,  ever  invented  or  translated  into  the  English  language. 

I  seized  upon  these  books  with  eagerness,  studied  the  pictures, 
and  made  toilsome  efforts  to  spell  out  their  meaning.  So  be- 


MYSELF     AND     MY     SHADOW.  177 

tvveen  Maria's  reading,  and  my  own  spelling  out  of  words,  we 
gathered  up  all  the  glowing  romance  ;  and  this  opened  new 
visions  to  me,  and  gave  a  vivid  impulse  to  my  day  dreamings 
among  the  pictures.  It  was  only  my  wild  spirit  that  wandered. 
At  first  the  debility  that  followed  my  illness,  and  afterward 
Turner's  earnest  prohibition,  confined  me  to  the  house,  or,  as  a 
great  indulgence,  to  the  little  flower  nook  directly  under  the 
windows. 

A  winter  and  spring  went  by,  and  then  my  fairy-like  impri 
sonment  ceased.  Old  Turner  grew  cheerful  and  indulgent  ;  he 
gave  me  long  walks  among  the  trees  ;  he  brought  a  pretty 
black  pony  upon  which  I  rode,  while  he  walked  by  my  saddle. 

My  frame  grew  vigorous,  and  my  spirits  bird-like,  under  this 
wholesome  indulgence.  Sometimes  I  caught  glimpses  of  Green- 
hufst,  and  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  morning  Turner  had 
found  me  upon  its  door-steps,  came  back  upon  my  brain.  I 
wondered  if  the  lady,  with  her  dog,  and  that  long,  silver-grey 
morning-robe,  was  there  yet,  and  if  I  should  ever  see  her  again. 
As  my  courage  and  curiosity  grew  strong,  I  inquired  about 
these  things  of  Turner.  "  No,  the  lady  was  not  there,"  he 
said,  "  she  had  gone  up  to  London,  to  be  near  her  son,  who  was 
at  Eton." 

Where  was  London  ?  Who  was  her  sou  ?  What  was 
Eton  ? 

How  eagerly  I  crowded  all  these  questions  together,  when, 
for  the  first  time,  I  found  the  dear  old  man  disposed  to  indulge 
my  curiosity.  London,  Eton  were  soon  explained,  but  they 
still  seemed  like  the  cities  I  had  read  of  in  my  fairy  books.  But 
when  he  told  me  of  this  son,  that  he  was  Lord  Clare's  nephew, 
and  might  one  day  become  owner  of  Greenhurst,  our  own  pretty 
home,  and  the  broad  fields  and  parks  around  us  to  the  horizon 
almost,  my  heart  fell,  my  thoughts  grew  dark,  and  for  a  moment 
the  beautiful  landscape  disappeared.  A  cold  mist  surrounded 
me.  It  was  but  for  a  moment,  but  why  was  it  ?  How  came 
thjs  bleak  vision  to  encompass  me  thus  with  its  dreary  indis 
tinctness  ?  Had  some  name  jarred  on  my  memory  which 

8* 


178  MYSELF     AND     MY      SHADOW. 

refused  to  receive  it,  and  yet  felt  the  shock  ?  Was  that  name 
Lord  Clare's  ?  Why  had  neither  Turner  nor  Maria  ever  men 
tioned  him  before  ?  Who  was  he  ?  What  was  Turner  to  him  ? 

I  asked  these  questions  at  once.  Turner  answered  in  a  low 
voice,  and  I  fancied  with  reluctance.  Certain  I  am,  his  voice 
was  more  husky  than  usual. 

He  explained  that  Lord  Clare  was  his  master — that  he  had 
gone  into  foreign  lands,  and  might  not  come  back  for  years. 
The  lady  whom  I  had  seen  was  his  sister,  unlike  him  in  every 
thing,  but  still  his  sister  ;  and  during  his  absence  her  home  was 
to  be  at  Greenhurst  whenever  it  might  be  her  pleasure  to  reside 
there. 

We  had  ridden  to  the  brow  of  an  eminence  on  the  verge  of 
the  park  while  Turner  was  giving  me  this  intelligence.  The 
spot  commanded  a  fine  view  of  the  country  far  and  near.  In  a 
sweeping  curve  of  the  distant  uplands  stood  a  dark  stone  dwel 
ling,  partially  castellated  and  partaking  of  a  style  which  admits 
of  towers  and  balconies,  so  ornamented  that  it  was  impossible 
to  guess  to  what  age  they  belonged.  It  was  an  imposing  build 
ing,  and  made  both  a  grand  and  picturesque  object,  lapped  as 
it  was  among  the  most  verdant  and  lovely  hills  in  the  world.  I 
looked  toward  this  building  with  interest.  It  seemed  like  some 
thing  I  had  seen  before,  pictured  perhaps  in  a  book. 

"  And  that,"  said  I,  pointing  toward  the  distance,  "  that 
house  yonder  among  the  purple  hills,  is  that  Lord  Clare's  also  ?" 

"  That,"  said  Turner,  with  a  sigh,  and  shading  his  eyes  with 
his  withered  hand,  "  that  is  Marston  Court." 

He  paused,  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  then,  remembering 
that  the  name  was  not  a  full  answer  to  my  question,  continued, 

"Yes,  yes,  that  is  Lord  Clare's  also.  It  came  to  him 
through — through  his — his — through  Lady  Clare." 

"  And  who  lives  yonder*  dear  Turner  ?" 

"  No  one  ;  it  is  shut  up." 

"  I  think,"  said  I,  leaning  down  toward  the  old  man,  who 
stood  with  one  arm  thrown  over  the  neck  of  my  pony,  "  I  think 
this  world  must  have  very  few  people  in  it  for  all  that  you  tell 


MYSELF     AND     MY     SHADOW.  179 

me.     No  one  at  Greentmrst — no  one  out  yonder — only  you  and 
Maria  and  me  among  these  woods  and  fields.'' 

"  And  is  not  that  enough,  child  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Are  you  not  happy  with  us,  Zana  ?  What  more  do  you 
want  ?" 

"  I  want,"  said  I,  kindling  with  the  idea,  "I  want  to  see  a 
child  ;  you  tell  me  the  world  is  full  of  little  girls  and  boys  like 
me — where  are  they  ?" 

"  I  have  thought  of  this  before,"  muttered  Turner,  uneasily, 
"  it's  natural — it's  what  I  should  have  expected.  What  com 
pany  are  the  Spanish  woman  and  such  a  dry  old  chip  as  I  am 
for  a  creature  like  this  ?" 

His  look  of  annoyance  disturbed  me.  I  could  not  bear  to 
see  his  old  face  so  wrinkled  with  anxiety. 

"  We  should  have  to  take  a  long  journey  to  find  the  children, 
I  suppose,"  said  I,  hoping  to  relieve  his  perplexity  ;  "  but  Jupi 
ter  here  is  so  strong,  and  so  swift,  if  you  could*  but  keep  up 
with  him  now,  we  might  search  for  them,  you  know." 

The  old  man  still  looked  anxious,  and  bore  down  heavily  on 
the  neck  of  my  beautiful  steed  with  his  arm. 

"Don't,"  said  I,  "you  will  hurt  Jupiter  ;  see  how  his  head 
droops." 

"  Poor  thing,  I  would  not  hurt  him  for  the  world,  if  it  were 
only  for  her  sake,"  sai '  the  old  man,  smoothing  the  arched  neck 
of  Jupiter  with  his  palm  ;  "  next  to  you,  Zana,  I  think  she 
loved  this  pretty  animal." 

"  Who — who  was  it  that  loved  Jupiter  so  ?"  I  inquired,  with 
eager  curiosity. 

"  Your  mother,"  replied  the  old  man,  and  the  words  dropped 
like  tears  from  his  lips. 

"  My  mother,"  I  repeated,  looking  upward,  and  solemnly 
expecting  to  see  that  sweet  face  gazing  down  upon  me  from 
the  clouds.  "  Let  us  go  home,  dear  Turner,  I  am  growing 
cold  ;  do  not  say  that  again,  the  sound  drifts  over  me  here  like 
a  snow-heap,  it  hurts  me." 


180  MYSELF     AND     MY      SHADOW. 

Turner  seemed  to  struggle  with  himself.  Then  lifting  his 
eyes  to  my  face,  as  if  he  had  nerved  his  resolution  to  say  some 
thing  very  painful,  he  answered, 

"  One  minute,  Zana  !  Tell  me,  child,  what  is  it  that  makes 
you  turn  white  and  shiver  so,  when  I  speak  as  I  did  now  of 
your  mother  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  !"  I  replied,  looking  upward,  with  anxiety. 
"The  cold  is  here  at  my  heart,  I  do  not  know  why." 

"  Do  you  remember  your  mother  ?  Now  that  you  are  well, 
something  of  the  past  should  come  back  to  you.  Child,  make 
an  effort — that  mother — what  has  become  of  her  ?" 

I  only  shuddered — but  had  no  reply  to  give  ;  I  could  feel, 
but  all  was  blank  and  blackness  to  my  thoughts. 

Turner  saw  my  distress,  and  his  own  become  more  and  more 
visible.  He  looked  upon  the  ground  and  began .  muttering  to 
himself,  a  habit  that  he  had  when  very  much  perplexed.  His 
thoughts  reached  me  in  disjointed  snatches,  but  I  dwelt  upon 
them  long  after. 

"  How  can  I  send  him  word  ?  What  can  I  say  ?  Even 
proof  of  her  own  identity  is  wanting — proof  that  would  satisfy 
him.  Besides,  his  anxiety  was  for  her — poor  thing — even  more 
than  the  child.  If  she  could  but  be  made  to  remember.  Zana, 
Zana  1"  he  burst  forth,  grasping,  my  arm,  and  looking  implor 
ingly  into  my  face,  "  struggle  with  this  apathy  of  mind — strive, 
think — tell  me,  child,  tell  me  something  that  I  can  get  for  a 
clue  I  Tell  me  if  you  can — try,  try,  my  pretty  Zana,  and  yo\i 
shall  have  troops  of  children  to  play  with.  Tell  me,  where  was 
it  that  you  parted  with  your  mother  ?" 

I  did  make  an  effort  to  remember.  My  veins  chilled  ;  my 
cheeks  grew  cold  as  ice  ;  I  lifted  my  finger  upward  and  pointed 
to  a  bank  of  clouds  rolling  in  fleecy  whiteness  over  us. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  exclaimed  Turner,  despairingly.  . 

I  could  not  speak,  my  lips  seemed  frozen.  I  sat  like  a  mar 
ble  child  upon  the  back  of  my  pony  ;  everything  around  me  had 
turned  to  snow  once  more. 


THE  FAIKY   AT  THE   POOL.        181 

Tears  rolled  down  Turner's  cheeks,  great,  cold  tears,  that 
looked  like  hail-stones — they  made  me  shiver  afresh. 

It  was  the  last  time  that  Turner  ever  tortured  me  with  ques 
tions  regarding  my  mother — questions  that  I  had  no  power  to 
answer,  yet  which  brought  with  them  such  mysterious,  such 
indescribable  pain.  Later,  when  my  soul  was  called  back  from 
the  past — but  of  this  hereafter. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

THE      FAIRY      AT     THE      POOL. 

ONE  day  I  had  wandered  through  the  garden  and  out  among 
the  brave  old  chestnuts  quite  alone,  for  now  that  the  family  were 
absent,  Turner  allowed  me  to  wander  almost  at  will  anywhere 
between  the  old  mansion  and  our  more  humble,  but  not  less 
lovely  home. 

This  time  I  took  one  of  the  great  chestnut  avenues  hitherto 
unexplored,  which  led  me,  by  a  curving  sweep,  to  the  lodge, 
which  I  just  remembered  having  passed  in  my  progress  from 
the  meadows,  on  the  memorable  night  when  Turner  found  me 
upon  the  door-steps.  Then  it  had  seemed  like  a  cliff,  adown 
which  great  festoons  of  ivy  were  sweeping  to  the  ground. 
Now  I  saw  the  thick  foliage  turned  and  forced  back  here  and 
there,  to  admit  light  into  the  doors  and  windows  of  a  rustic 
cottage,  which  had  a  stir  of  life  within,  though  I  saw  no 
person. 

I  passed  this  lodge  with  a  stealthy  tread,  for  a  sense  of  dis 
obedience  troubled  me,  I  knew,  without  having  been  directly 
told,  that  both  Turner  and  Maria  would  disapprove  my  passing 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  park  ;  but  childish  curiosity,  with  some 
vague  remembrance  of  the  place,  were  too  strong  for  my  sense 


182  THE     FAIRY     AT     THE     POOL. 

of  rignt,  and  I  passed  on  quite  charmed  with  the  broad  slope 
of  meadow  land  that  lay  before  me,  all  golden,  crimson  and 
white  with  mid-summer  blossoms.  A  village  with  a  church  tower 
in  the  distance  rose  upon  my  view  like  a  glimpse  of  fairy-land. 
I  felt  then  that  the  world,  as  Turner  asserted,  was  full  of  people, 
and  longed  to  know  more  about  them. 

I  walked  along  the  carriage  track  which  wound  toward  the 
village  through  thick  hedges  just  out  of  blossom,  holding  my 
breath  as  I  recognized  here  a  moss-covered  stone,  there  a 
hillock,  upon  which  I  had  set  down  to  rest  on  that  wearisome 
night.  The  grass  was  green  and  fresh  where  the  tent  had  been, 
to  which  my  first  remembrance  went  back,  but  I  recollected  the 
place  well.  As  I  stood  gazing  on  it,  the  soft  gurgle  of  waters 
fell  upon  my  ear  as  it  had  then,  and  induced,  half  by  a  feeling 
that  seemed  like  terror,  half  by  curiosity,  I  moved  toward  the 
hollow,  wondering  if  I  should  find  that  impish  little  figure  wait 
ing  for  me  again. 

I  reached  the  slope,  looked  half  timidly  down,  and  remained 
breathless  and  lost  in  delight. 

Upon  the  rock  which  I  have  mentioned  covered  with  lichen 
and  mossy  grasses,  sat  a  little  girl,  about  my  own  age,  I  should 
think,  busy  with  a  quantity  of  meadow  blossoms  that  filled  the 
crown  of  a  straw  bonnet  that  stood  by  her  side.  All  around 
her  lay  the  gathered  blossoms  ;  her  tiny  feet  were  buried  in 
them  ;  they  gleamed  through  the  skirt  of  her  muslin  dress,  and 
brightened  the  rock  all  around.  She  coquetted  with  them  like 
a  bird — bending  her  head  on  one  side  as  she  held  a  cluster  of 
violets  in  the  sun,  'flinging  it  back  with  a  graceful  curve  of  the 
neck,  when  they  dropped  into  shadow,  and  eyeing  them  coyly 
all  the  time,  as  a  robin  regards  the  cherry  he  intends  to  appro 
priate  at  leisure. 

What  eyes  the  creature  had  !  large  and  of  a  purplish  blue, 
like  the  violets  she  held,  and  so  full  of  smiling  brightness. 
Never  before  or  since  have  I  seen  a  creature  so  beautiful,  so 
full  of  graceful  bloom.  Her  profuse  hair  was  in  disorder,  fall 
ing  in  golden  waves  and  curls  all  over  her  white  shoulders,  from 


THE  FAIRY  AT  THE  POOL.       183 

which  the  transparent  sleeve  was  drawn  with  knots  of  blue 
ribbon,  leaving  the  prettiest  dimples  in  the  world  exposed. 
Her  mouth  was  soft,  red,  and  smiling  like  ripe  cherries  in  the 
sunshine,  and  that  rosy  smile,  so  innocent  in  its  tenderness, 
so  radiant  with  glee  !  Talk  of  women  not  feeling  the  glow  of 
each  other's  beauty  ;  why,  there  is  ^no  feeling  on  earth  so 
unselfish,  so  full  of  lofty,  tender  admiration  as  the  love  which 
one  high-souled  woman  feels  for  the  sister  woman  to  whom  her 
soul  goes  forth  in  sympathy.  This  appreciation,  these  attach 
ments  are  not  frequent  in  society,  but  when  they  do  exist,  the 
loves  of  the  angels  are  almost  realized.  Sometimes  the  same 
feeling  extends  to  children,  but  not  often. 

I  looked  down  upon  this  child,  thus  busy  with  her  graceful 
flowers,  and  my  heart  filled  with  the  sunshine  of  her  presence. 
As  she  trifleVl  with  her  garlands,  the  smile  broke  into  music 
on  her  red  lips,  and  a  few  soft  chirping  notes,  wild  and  un 
taught  as  a  bird's,  blended  richly  with  the  flowing  waters. 

At  last  she  lifted  a  half-twined  garland  high  over  her  head, 
that  the  sunshine  might  kindle  up  its  blossoms,  and  as  her  eyes 
were  turned  upward  they  fell  upon  me.  The  garland  hung 
motionless  in  her  hand  ;  the  song  died  on  her  lips,  leaving  them 
like  an  opening  rose-b^d  ;  and  her  blue  eyes  filled  with  a  look 
of  pleasant  wonder.  Thus,  for  the  moment,  we  gazed  upon 
each  other,  we  who  were  to  be  a  destiny  each  to  the  other. 

"  Come,"  she  said  at  last,  pushing  her  straw  hat  toward  me 
so  eagerly  that  a  quantity  of  flowers  rolled  over  the  brim, 
through  which  the  broad  strings  rippled  in  azure  waves — 
"  come,  there  is  enough  for  us  both,  let  us  pelt  the  brook  and 
hear  the  water  laugh  as  it  runs  away  with  them.  Here,  jump 
to  the  rock,  I  will  make  room.  Now  for  it  1" 

She  gathered  up  her  skirt,  crushing  the  blossoms  with  her 
little  dimpled  arms,  pushed  back  the  bonnet,  and  left  a  space 
upon  the  stone  for  me  to  occupy. 

I  sprang  down  the  bank  breathing  quickly,  and  with  my 
whole  frame  in  a  joyful  glow,  I  placed  myself  among  the 


THE     FAIKT      AT     THE     POOL. 

blossoms,  wove  my  arms  about  the  charming  infant's,  and  kissed 
her  shoulders  till  she  laughed  aloud,  as  a  bird  breaks  into 
music  at  the  first  sight  of  a  kindred  songster. 

"  Come,"  said  the  child,  her  voice  still  rich  with  glee — 
"  come,  let  us  go  to  work  ;  which  will  you  have,  violets,  prim 
roses,  or  some  of  these  pretty  white  stars  that  I  found  by  the 
brook  ?» 

"All,  all,"  I  answered,  with  animation,  "give  them  to  me, 
and  mind  what  a  pretty  crown  I  shall  make  for  your  hair." 

She  turned  her  great  wondering  eyes  on  me  as  I  wove  the 
blossoms  together— the  violets  with  golden  primroses,  inter 
mingling  them  with  leaves  and  spears  of  long  grass,  a  white 
star  gleaming  out  here  and  there  in  silvery  relief. 

When  she  saw  my  garland,  so  different  from  her  own,  in 
which  the  flowers  were  grouped  without  method,  the  child 
seemed  lost  in  admiration.  After  gazing  on  it  a  moment,  and 
then  upon  me,  she  took  her  own  half-formed  wreath  and  cast 
it  upon  the  brooklet  with  a  charming  little  pout  of  the  lips, 
that  was  lovely  almost  as  her  smiles  had  been. 

I  went  on  with  my  coronal,  enjoying  the  task  as  an  author 
does  his  poem,  or  a  painter  his  picture.  T{|e  buds  harmonized 
under  my  fingers  ;  their  symmetrical  grace  filled  my  soul  with 
the  delight  which  springs  from  a  natural  love  of  the  beautiful. 
Even  at  that  age  I  had  all  the  feelings  of  an  artist,  all  that 
love  of  praise  which  holds  a  place  in  those  feelings. 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  weaving  my  wreath  among  her  golden  curls, 
"  if  you  could  see  how  beautiful  you  are  together,  you  and  the 
flowers." 

"  I  can  see,"  cried  the  child,  springing  up  and  scattering 
a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  folds  of  her  frock  which  fell 
into  the  water,  disturbing  it  till  it  looked  like  a  shattered 
mirror.  "No,  not  now,  naughty  thing  that  I  am,  to  make 
the  poor  brook  so  angry  with  my  flowers — but  wait  a  minute, 
and  you  shall  see  !" 

".No,  no,  not  there  1"  cried  I,  seizing  her  in  breathless  fear, 
for  I  remembered  the  hideous  thing  that  had  frightened  me 


THE  FAIRY  AT  THE  POOL.       185 

from  the  depths  of  those  very  waters  ;  "  don't  look  in  the 
water  ;  let  us  go  away.  It  may  be  lurking  here  yet." 

"  What  ?"  questioned  the  child,  anxiously. 

"  Something  that  I  saw  here  once,  a  wild,  wicked  creature, 
with  such  eyes  and  hair  " 

"What,  in  the  water?"  she  asked,  her  blue  eyes  growing 
wider  and  larger. 

"  Yes,  here  in  the  pool,  just  by  this  rock." 

We  both  stood  up  clinging  to  one  another.  In  our  upright 
position  the  pool  lay  clear  and  tranquil  beneath  us,  and  im 
pelled  by  that  sort  of  fascination  which  in  moments  of  affright 
often  turns  the  gaze  upon  that  which  it  dreads  to  see,  our  eyes 
fell  at  the  same  moment  upon  two  objects  reflected  back  as 
from  a  mirror — my  little  friend,  so  like  one  of  those  cherubs 
which  Raphael  half  buries  amid  the  transparent  clouds  in  his 
pictures — and  that  other  little  friend,  with  whom  I  had  become 
acquainted  in  tlie  mirror  at  home. 

"  Ah,  how  came  she  here  ?  Is  she  your  friend  also  ?"  I  said, 
pointing  toward  the  dark  brilliant  child  that  pointed  back  to 
me,  with  a  questioning  smile  as  I  spoke. 

"  Who,  that  ?"  asked  my  companion,  waving  her  hand — a 
gesture  that  was  sent  back,  as  it  seemed,  with  new  grace  from 
the  water. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  it  again  ?" 

"Yes,  but  do  you?  Does  it  ever  speak  to  you,  or  only  stand 
looking  like  that  ?" 

She  gazed  at  me  with  her  wondering  eyes,  and  then  at  the 
images  beneath  us. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me,  there  with  the  wreath  on  ? — and 
you  ?  it  is  so  droll  that  any  one  should  not  know  herself." 

I  caught  my  breath. 

"What?"  I  exclaimed,  "does  that  child  look  like  me?  is  it 
me?" 

"  Why,  yes,  who  else,  please  ?"  cried  my  companion  gaily, 
"  see,  it  is  your  hair,  so  black,  and  your  pretty  frock  too  ;  and 
the  eyes,  they  look  like  stars  in  the  water." 


186  THE     FAIRY     AT     THE     POOL. 

I  looked  upon  the  two  figures,  the  fair,  blooming  little  beauty 
— the  dark,  earnest,  haughty  but  sparkling  face  that  bent  over 
her.  After  a  moment,  I  said  slowly,  as  if  speaking  of  a  pic 
ture,  "  yes,  it  is  me,  and  I  am  beautiful  !" 

"  Indeed  you  are,"  exclaimed  the  child,  with  a  gaiety  that 
disturbed  me,  for  this  conviction  of  my  own  loveliness  gave  a 
serious,  almost  sad  impression  to  my  thoughts  ;  "  papa  calls  me 
his  blossom,  you  shall  be  his  star.  Shall  she  not,  my  own 
darling  papa  ?" 

I  looked  up  and  saw  a  gentleman  standing  upon  the  bank 
looking  calmly,  and  with  a  gentle  smile  upon  us  as  we  stood. 
He  was  dressed  in  black,  somewhat  worn,  and  had  a  subdued 
meekness  in  his  deportment,  which  won  my  childish  heart  in  an 
instant. 

"  Well,  Cora,  are  you  ready  to  return  home  ?"  he  said,  with 
a  quiet  smile. 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa,"  she  cried,  unwinding  her  arms  from  mine, 
and  leaping  from  the  rock.  "  Good-bye,  come  to-morrow,"  she 
cried,  clambering  up  the  bank,  and  pausing  at  the  top  to 
shower  back  kisses  with  both  hands  ;  "do  you  hear  ?  Come 
to-morrow,  my  star  " — 

The  gentleman  took  her  hand  and  led  her  away.  I  watched 
them  till  they  disappeared,  and  then  sunk  upon  the  rock  crying 
disconsolately.  It  seemed  as  if  my  life  had  again  just  begun, 
and  was  swept  away  into  darkness. 


FUNERALS     AND     ORPHANS.  187 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

FUNERALS      AND      ORPHANS. 

ALL  that  night  I  lay  awake,  thinking  of  the  morrow,  longing 
for  daylight,  and  so  impatient  of  the  darkness  around  me,  that 
I  left  my  bed  again  and  again  to  fling  aside  the  curtains  and 
search  for  a  glow  in  the  east.  I  had  told  my  adventure,  and 
described  the  beautiful  child  to  Maria,  my  kind  bonne.  She 
heard  it  all  with  pleasant  curiosity,  but  strove  to  subdue  the 
wild  impatience  with  which  I  panted  for  another  interview  with 
this  heavenly  creature  of  my  own  sex  and  age. 

The  next  day  I  started  for  the  spring,  and  reached  it  in  a 
glow  of  expectation,  panting  with  the  eager  affection  that 
burned  like  a  fire  in  my  bosom.  Nothing  was  there.  The 
grey  rock,  with  its  trampled  lichen,  the  pool  sleeping  softly 
beneath  it,  and  the  sweet  current  rippling  through  clusters  of 
fragrant  mint,  alone  met  my  ear  and  gaze.  A  few  dead  blos 
soms  lay  upon  the  rock,  tormenting  me  with  a  withered  me 
mento  of  the  joy  I  had  known  the  day  before.  I  sat  down 
among  these  blossoms  and  cried  with  bitter  disappointment. 
After  waiting  hours  in  the  hot  sun,  I  returned  home  weary  and 
disheartened.  Why  had  she  broken  her  promise  ?  How  could 
I  ever  trust  her  again  if  she  did  come  to  the  spring  ?  Who 
was  she,  a  real  being,  or  a  fairy,  who,  for  one  moment  had 
taken  pity  on  my  loneliness,  to  leave  me  more  desolate  than 
before  ? 

My  hopes  of  seeing  her  again  began  to  falter  greatly  after 
the  third  day,  but  still  I  persisted  on  going  to  the  rock  every 
morning  for  a  week.  The  dead  flowers  among  the  lichen  went 
to  my  heart  every  time  I  saw  them,  bat  I  had  no  courage  to 
brush  them  into  the  water;  they  were,  at  least,  a  proof  that  I 
had  seen  her. 


188  FUNERALS     AND     ORPHANS. 

One  morning,  after  brooding  over  my  disappointment,  won 
dering  and  watching  as  a  child,  with  a  heart  in  its  wish,  only 
can  wait  and  watch,  I  shook  away  the  tears  from  my  eyes  and 
sprang  up,  nerved  with  a  sort  of  inspiration.  I  would  search 
for  the  child — wander  right  and  left  till  she  was  found.  I 
would  mourn  no  more,  but  go  to  work,  nor  yield  again  to  tears 
while  an  eifort  could  be  made  to  find  her  for  whose  presence  I 
pined. 

I  clambered  up  the  bank,  crossed  into  the  highroad,  and 
wandered  on  toward  the  village  that  lay  in  lovely  quietude 
before  me,  half  veiled  in  a  silvery  mist.  This  village  was  ihc 
world  to  me,  and  an  eager  wish  to  see  what  it  was  like, 
mingled  with  a  conviction  that  there  I  should  find  the  child. 

I  drew  near  the  village,  looking  eagerly  on  each  side  for  thu 
object  of  my  wanderings.  The  church  which,  afar  off,  seemed 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  place,  stood  some  distance  from  the 
large  cluster  of  houses,  and  I  reached  this  first.  It  was  one  of 
those  low  stone  buildings  so  common  in  England,  with  deep 
gothic  windows,  and  a  single  tower  draped  and  overrun  with 
ivy.  Behind  it  was  a  grave-yard,  crowded  thick  with  yew  and 
cypress  trees,  under  whose  shadows  the  curious  old  grave-stones 
gleamed  dimly,  as  if  through  the  mournful  mistiness  of  a  funeral 
veil. 

Near  this  church,  and  like  it,  built  of  grey  stone,  to  whicli 
the  ivy  clung  like  a  garment,  stood  a  dwelling.  White  jessa 
mines  and  creeping  roses  brightened  up  the  ivy,  garlanding  the 
very  eaves  with  blossoms;  and  a  porch  which  was  one  mass  of 
honeysuckles,  was  approached  by  a  narrow  gravel  path  bor 
dered  with  flowers,  and  sheltered  the  front  door. 

The  contrast  of  life  and  death  was  strong  between  this 
dwelling  and  the  grave-yard.  One  was  bright  with  foliage  and 
gay  with  blossoms,  around  which  the  golden  bees  kept  up  a 
constant  hum,  and  birds  flitted  in  and  out,  too  busy  for  singing, 
but  blending  their  low,  pleasant  chirps  with  the  sleepy  bee 
music.  The  sunshine  fell  softly  on  bee,  bird,  and  blossom — 
the  dew  here  and  there  fringed  the  ivy  leaves  with  diamonds, 


FUNERALS      AND     ORPHANS.  189 

and  one  high  elm  tree  sweeping  over  all.  Opposed  to  this  was 
the  graveyard,  lying  within  the  shadow  of  the  church — the 
yews  and  cypress  crowding  together  among  the  graves  like 
giant  mourners  at  a  funeral,  and  tall  trees  looming  above,  laden 
down  and  black  with  rooks'  nests,  around  which  the  sable  birds 
wheeled  and  circled  in  gloomy  silence,  broken  only  by  an  abrupt 
caw,  now  and  then,  which  fell  upon  your  ear  like  a  cry  of  pain 
from  one  of  the  graves.  Thus  it  was  that  these  two  Buildings, 
the  church  and  parsonage  house,  struck  me  at  the  time.  It  is 
strange — I  have  no  idea  what  possessed  me — but  I  turned  from 
the  cheerful  dwelling  and  entered  the  grave-yard. 

The  long  grass  was  heavy  with  dew,  and  my  tiny  boots  were 
soon  wet  to  the  ankles;  but  I  wandered  on  among  the  ancient 
stones,  wondering  what  they  were,  and  why  the  joy  had  all  left 
my  heart  so  suddenly.  I  bent  down  and  attempted  to  read  the 
inscriptions  on  these  stones ;  but  most  of  the  letters  were  choked 
up  with  moss,  and  of  the  rest  I  could  make  nothing.  The 
great  mystery  of  death  had  never  been  made  known  to  me,  and 
this  was  the  ficst  time  I  had  ever  seen  a  grave. 

I  sat  down  on  a  horizontal  stone  of  white  marble,  cut  with 
deep,  black  letters,  and  folding  my  hands  on  my  lap,  looked 
around  saddened  to  the  heart,  and  in  this  new  impression  for 
getting  the  child  I  had  come  forth  to  seek.  All  at  once,  a 
strain  of  music  swept  over  me  from  the  church,  slow,  sad,  and 
with  a  depth  of  solemnity  that  made  every  string  in  my  heart 
vibrate.  As  if  a  choir  of  angels  had  summoned  me,  I  arose  and 
walked  slowly  toward  the  church.  The  door  was  open,  and 
through  it  swept  the  music  in  deep,  thrilling  gushes,  that  seemed 
to  bathe  me  in  a  solemn  torrent  of  sound. 

In  the  dim  light  which  filled  the  church  I  saw  a  group  of 
persons.  Some  had  handkerchiefs  to  their  eyes,  and  others  bent 
forward  as  if  in  prayer. 

Directly  in  front  of  what  I  afterwards  learned  to  be  the  altar, 
stood7 an  object  that  filled  me  with  inexpressible  awe.  A 
quantity  of  black  velvet  fell  over  it  in  deep,  gloomy  folds,  and 


190  FUNERALS      AND     ORFHAN8. 

those  nearest  it  wept  bitterly,  and  witli  heavy  sobs  that  made 
my  heart  swell. 

At  last  the  music  was  hushed.  A  man  stepped  down  from 
the  altar  in  long,  sweeping  robes,  whose  heavy  blackness  was 
relieved  by  a  wave  of  white,  sweeping  over  one  shoulder  and 
across  his  bosom.  Some  one  lifted  the  mass  of  velvet,  and  I 
saw  the  flash  of  silver  nails  with  the  gleam  of  white  satin  as  a  , 
lid  was  flung  back. 

Then  all  faded  from  my  sight.  I  saw  nothing  but  a  tall  man, 
also  in  robes  that  swept  the  floor,  holding  a  child  by  the  hand. 

I  uttered  a  low  cry  and  moved  forward.  It  was  the  child  I 
had  seen  at  the  spring,  but  oh,  how  changed  !  Her  lovely  face 
was  bathed  in  tears;  that  poor  little  mouth  quivered  with  the 
sobs  that  she  was  striving  to  keep  back.  One  dimpled  hand 
was  pressed  to  her  eyes  and  dripping  with  tears — the  blue  rib 
bons,  the  pretty  white  frock,  all  were  laid  away;  and,  in  their 
place,  I  saw  the  black  sleeve  of  her  mourning  dress  looped  from 
the  white  shoulders  with  knots  of  crape. 

I  could  not  understand  the  meaning  of  all  this,  but  my  heart 
was  full  of  her  grief.  Intent  on  her  alone,  I  walked  up  the  aisle, 
and,  flinging  my  arms  around  her,  began  to  weep  aloud. 

The  child  felt  my  embrace,  gave  me  a  wild  look  through  her 
tears,  and,  seeing  who  it  was,  forced  away  the  hand  her  father 
clasped,  and  flung  herself  upon  my  bosom. 

I  was  about  to  speak. 

"  Hush,  hush  I"  whispered  the  child,  in  a  voice  that  reminded 
me  of  the  waters  stealing  through  the  violet  hollow,  it  was  so 
liquid  with  tears,  "  see  I" 

Cora  drew  me  closer  to  the  object  buried  beneath  those  folds 
of  velvet,  and  I  saw,  lying  upon  a  satin  pillow  fast  asleep,  as 
I  thought,  the  sweetest  and  palest  face  my  young  eyes  had 
ever  beheld.  Waves  of  soft,  golden  hair  lay  upon  the  temples, 
and  gleamed  through  the  cold  transparency  of  her  cap  ;  the 
waxen  hands  lay  folded  over  her  still  heart,  pressing  down  a 
white  rose  into  the  motionless  plaits  of  fine  linen  that  lay  upon 
her  bosom. 


FUNERALS     AND     ORPHANS.  191 

"  Has  she  been  long  asleep  ?"  I  whispered. 

"  She  is  dead  !"  replied  the  child,  with  a  fresh  burst  of 
tears. 

Dead — dead  !  How  the  word  fell  upon  my  heart,  uttered 
thus,  with  tears  and  shuddering,  its  meaning  visible  before  me  in 
that  marble  stillness.  My  very  ignorance  gave  it  force  and 
poignancy.  Its  mysteriousness  was  terrible.  I  had  no  power 
to  question  further,  but  clung  to  the  child  no  longer  weeping, 
but  hushed  with  awe. 

It  must  have  had  a  singular  effect,  my  scarlet  dress  and  rose 
colored  bonnet,  glowing  like  fire  among  the  funeral  vestments 
around  me.  But  no  one  attempted  to  separate  me  from  the 
child  ;  and  when  the  coffin  was  lifted,  and  the  music  once  more 
swelled  through  the  sacred  edifice,  we  went  forth  clinging  to 
each  other.  Though  one  of  her  hands  was  clasped  in  that  of 
her  father,  I  felt  quite  sure  he  was  unconscious  of  my  presence, 
for  as  they  closed  the  coffin  I  could  feel  the  shudder  that  ran 
through  his  frame,  even  though  I  touched  the  child  only.  He 
walked  from  the  church  like  a  blind  man,  capable  of  observing 
nothing  but  the  black  cloud  that  passed  on  before,  sweeping 
his  heart  away  with  it. 

We  entered  the  church-yard,  and  there,  beneath  one  of  the 
tall  trees,  was  a  newly  dug  grave.  I  had  seen  it  before,  but 
it  had  no  significance  then  ;  now  my  heart  stood  still  as  we 
gathered  around  it. 

The  trembling  that  had  shaken  the  child's  frame  ceased. 
We  both  stood  breathless  and  still  as  marble  while  the  service 
was  read  ;  but  when  they  lowered  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  I 
felt  the  pang  that  shot  through  her  in  every  nerve  of  my  own 
frame.  She  uttered  no  sound,  but  my  arm  was  chilled  by  the 
coldness  that  crept  over  her  neck  and  shoulders.  I  do  not 
know  how  the  crowd  left  us,  but  we  stood. alone  by  the  grave 
with  its  fresh  disjointed  sods,  and  the  brown  earth  gleaming 
desolately  through  the  crevices. 

All  efforts  at  self-restraint  gave  way  now  that  the  widower 
found  himself  alone,  for  in  our  grief  children  are  looked  upon 


192  FUNERALS     AND     ORPHANS. 

like  flowers.     Their  sympathy  is  like  a  perfume  ;  their  innocence 
soothes  the  anguish  they  witness.     Their  little  souls  are  brim-> 
ful  of  beautiful  charity,  and  their  presence  a  foretaste  of  the 
heaven  to  which  the  Saviour  likens  them. 

He  stood  in  his  silent  grief,  every  nerve  relaxed,  ever} 
breath  a  sigh  ;  his  figure  drooped,  and  the  child's  hand  fell 
loosely  from  his  clasp.  He  leaned  against  the  tree  that  was  to 
overshadow  the  beloved  one  forever,  and  gazed  down  upon  the 
grave  as  if  his  own  soul  were  buried  among  the  sods,  and  he 
were  waiting  patiently  for  the  angels  to  come  and  help  him 
search  for  it. 

I  felt  that  Cora  was  growing  colder  and  colder.  Her  face 
was  white  as  newly  fallen  snow.  She  ceased  to  weep,  and 
allowed  me  to  lead  her  away  to  the  marble  slab  I  had  occupied 
when  the  funereal  music  led  me  to  her. 

We  sat  down  together,  and  she  leaned  against  my  shoulder 
in  profound  silence.  Her  eyelids  closed  languidly,  .and  the 
violet  of  her  eyes  tinged  their  whiteness  like  a  shadow.  For 
some  minutes  we  sat  thus,  when  a  hoarse  caw  from  the  rooks 
circling  above  the  tree,  at  whose  foot  lay  the  grave,  made  her 
start.  She  gave  a  single  glance  toward  the  tree,  saw  her 
father  and  the  green  sods,  and,  bursting  into  a  fresh  agony  of 
tears,  cried  out, 

"  She  is  there — she  is  there — mother,  mother — I  have  no 
mother  !" 

This  cry  awoke  a  strange  pang  in  my  bosom.  For  the  first 
time  there  was  entire  sisterhood  in  our  grief.  Mother,  mother, 
that  was  the  thing  for  which  I  had  pined,  that  was  my  own 
great  want — I  had  felt  it  in  the  meadow  when  the  lark  fed  its 
young — I  had  felt  it  in  my  convalescence — in  the  picture  gal 
lery — everywhere,  and  now  this  harassing  want  was  hers 
also.  As  she  cried  aloud'  for  her  mother,  so  did  my  soul  echo 
it  ;  and,  as  if  her  own  lips  had  uttered  the  sound,  I  wailed  forth, 

"  Mother,  mother — /have  no  mother  !" 

With  that  we  flung  our  arms  around  each  other,  as  flowers 
sometimes  twine  their  stems  in  the  dark,  and  were  silent  again. 


FUNERALS      AND     ORPHANS.  193 

But  this  intense  excitement  could  not  last  with  children  so 
impulsive  and  so  ardent.  After  a  while  Cora  began  to  be  im 
patient  of  her  father's  immovability  ;  it  frightened  her. 

"  Let  us  go  to  him,"  she  whispered  ;  "he  seems  dropping 
to  sleep  as  she  did.  How  white  and  still  his  hands  look,  falling 
so  loosely  against  the  black  robe." 

We  crept  toward  the  stricken  man,  and  stood  beside  him  in 
breathless  awe.  He  did  not  observe  us  ;  his^yes  riveted  them 
selves  upon  the  sods  ;  the  drooping  of  his  limbs  increased.  He 
seemed  about  to  seat  himself  on  the  earth. 

Cora  took  his  nerveless  hand  between  hers,  and  raised  her 
great  blue  eyes,  now  full  of  a  light  more  touching  than  tears, 
to  his  face. 

"  Papa,  papa,  come  home  ;  you  told  me  that  she  would 
never  wake  up  again." 

He  turned  his  heavy  eyes  upon  the  child  with  a  look  of  ques 
tioning  weariness,  as  if  he  had  not  comprehended  her,  and 
remained  gazing  in  her  face,  with  a  mournful  smile  parting  his 
lips. 

"  Come  !"  said  the  child,  pulling  gently  at  his  hand — 
"come!" 

He  yielded  to  her  infant  force  as  if  he  were  himself  a  child  to 
be  thus  guided,  and  walked  with  a  feeble  step  toward  the 
house.  But  its  cheerfulness  mocked  him.  Bees  that  had  been 
gathering  stores  from  the  honeysuckle  porch — birds  lodged  in 
the  great  elm,  and  a  thousand  summer  insects  that  love  the 
sunshine,  all  set  up  a  clamor  of  melody  that  made  him  shrink  as 
if  some  violence  had  been  offered.  He  said  nothing,  but  I 
could  see  the  color  fade  like  mist  from  his  lips.  We  had 
brought  him  too  suddenly  from  the  shadows  of  the  grave  ;  the 
soul  requires  time  before  it  can  leave  the  vale  of  tears  to  stand 
uncovered  in  the  sunshine.  We  entered  a  little  parlor,  very 
simple  in  its  adornments,  but  neat  and  cheerful  as  a  room  could 
be.  The  casements  were  draped  with  foliage,  and  this  gave 
a  soft  twilight  to  the  apartment,  that  soothed  us  all. 

He  sat  down  in  a  large,  easy-chair,  draped  with  white 

9 


194:  FUNERALS      AND     ORPHANS. 

dimity,  that  gave  a  strong  contrast  to  his  black  robe.  Cora 
climbed  to  his  knee,  and  put  up  her  quivering  lips  for  a  kiss  ; 
but  he  did  not  heed  the  action,  and  I  saw  her  pretty  eyes 
fill  with  tears — she,  poor  thing,  who  had  shed  so  many  that 
day. 

I  could  not  bear  that  look  of  sorrow,  and  pressed  close  up  to 
his  other  knee. 

"  Sir,  papa,"  fo'r  she  had  -called  him  this  ;  and  why  should 
not  any  other  child  ?  "  Papa,  Cora  wants  to  kiss  you  ;  she 
has  been  trying  and  trying,  but  you  don't  mind  in  the  least." 

He  looked  at  rne  with  a  bewildered  stare,  glancing  down 
from  my  face  to  the  brilliant  garments  that  contrasted  like 
flame  against  his  black  robe. 

"It  is  Cora,  poor  little  Cora,  you  should  speak  to — not  me," 
I  said.  "Look,  her  eyes  are  full  again,  and  she  has  cried  her 
self  almost  to  death  before." 

He  looked  at  the  child.  The  hard  gloom  melted  from  his 
eyes,  and  drawing  her  to  his  bosom  he  dissolved  into"  tears. 

I  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it.  I  pressed  my  lips  down  on  the 
child's  feet,  and  smoothed  her  mourning  frock  with  my  hands. 
Tears  were  flashing  like  hail-stones  down  my  own  cheeks,  and 
yet  there  was  joy  in  my  heart.  Though  a  child,  I  knew  that 
the  worst  part  of  his  grief  had  passed  away.  Poor  little  Cora, 
how  she  clung  and  wept,  and  nestled  in  his  bosom  !  His  strange 
coldness  had  seemed  like  a  second  death  to  the  child.  I  felt 
that  both  were  happier,  and  looked  on  with  a  glow  of  the 
heart. 

"  My  child — my  poor,  poor  orphan,"  he  murmured,  kissing 
her  forehead,  while  one  little  pale  cheek  was  pressed  to  his 
bosom — "my  orphan,  my  orphan" 

"What  is  an  orphan,  papa  ?"  questioned  the  child,  lifting  up 
her  face,  and  gazing  at  him  through  her  tears.  "  What  is  an 
orphan  ?" 

"  It  is  a  child  who  has  no  mother,  Cora,"  was  the  low  and 
mournful  reply. 


FUNERALS  AND  ORPHANS.       195 

My  heart  listened,  and  I  felt  to  its  innermost  fold  that  there 
was  a  mysterious  sisterhood  between  the  child  and  myself. 

Cora  had  withdrawn  from  her  father's  bosom,  and  sat  upright 
on  his  knee  listening  to  him.  There  was  a  moment's  silence, 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  seemed  perfectly  conscious  of  my 
presence. 

"  And  who  is  this  ?"  he  inquired,  laying  his  hand  on  my  head 
with  mournful  kindness. 

"  I  am  an  orphan  like  her,"  was  my  answer. 

"  Poor  child  1"  he  murmured,  gently  smoothing  my  hair 
again.  "  But  how  came  you  here  ?  You  have  been  crying 
too — what  has  grieved  you  ?" 

"  They  were  crying,  all  except  you,"  I  answered.  "  I  was 
looking  for  her,  down  at  the  brook  spring  ;  something  told  me 
to  walk  on — on — on  till  I  came  here.  I  saw  Cora  and  that 
beautiful  lady  on  the  satin  *  pillow,  with  all  the  black  velvet 
lying  so  heavily  over  her.  Cora  was  very  unhappy  ;  so  was  I ; 
that  is  all." 

"  But  who  are  you  ?  What  is  your  name  ?"  he  asked,  look 
ing  tenderly  in  my  face. 

"  Zaua  is  my  name  ?" 

"  Zana,  what  more  ?     You  have  another  name  1" 

"  No— Zana,  that  is  all." 

"But  who  is  your  father  ?" 

The  question  puzzled  me  ;  I  did  not  know  its  meaning  ;  no 
one  had  ever  asked  after  my  father  before. 

"  My  father  !"  I  said,  doubtfully. 

"  Yes,  your  father  ;  is  he  living  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  !" 

"  But  his  name,  what  was  that  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  !" 

"  Then  you  are  indeed  an  orphan,  poor  thing." 

"  I  have  no  mother  ;  isn't  that  an  orphan  ?" 

"  Truly  it  is,  poor  infant — but  where  do  you  live  ?" 

"  On  the  Rock,  by  the  little  spring  pond  ;  don't  you  remem 
ber,  papa  ?"  said  Cora,  beginning  to  brighten  up, 


196  PLEASANT     DATS     AND 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  he  replied,  sinking  back  into  the  sorrow 
ful  gloom,  from  which  my  strange  appearance  had  aroused  him; 
"  and  this  was  the  child  then  who  made  your  pretty  violet 
wreath  ?" 

"  Mamma  smiled,  don't  you  remember,  when  she  saw  me  with 
it  on,  and  said  it  was  so  lovely  1"  answered  the  child,  with  ani 
mation. 

"  She  never  looked  on  you,  my  poor  darling,  without  a 
smile,"  answered  the  father,  so  sadly  that  my  heart  swelled 
once  more. 

He  seemed  to  forget  me  again,  and  sat  gazing  wistfully  on 
the  floor.  Cora,  too,  was  exhausted  by  excess  of  weeping,  and 
I  saw  that  her  beautiful  eyelids  were  drooping  like  the  Over 
ripe  leaves  of  a  white  rose.  With  a  feeling  that  it  was  kind 
and  right,  I  stole  from  the  room  and  made^  my  way  home.  It 
was  a  long  walk,  and  I  reached  the  cottage  in  a  terrible  state 
of  exhaustion.  My  kind-hearted  bonne  took  me  in  her  arms 
without  annoying  questions,  and  Tsighed  myself  to  sleep  on  her 
bosom. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

PLEASANT  DAYS  AND  PLEASANT  TEACHINGS. 

THE  next  morning  Turner  called,  and  I  told  him  my  mournful 
adventure.  He  seemed  greatly  interested,  and,  after  listening 
very  attentively,  sunk  into  a  train  of  thought,  still  holding  me 
on  his  knee.  At  last  he  addressed  Maria, 

"  This  may  prove  a  good  thing  for  the  child,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  strange  we  never  thought  of  it  before.  The  curate's  daugh 
ter  is  just  the  companion  for  Zana,  and  as  they  teach  her  at 
home  it  is  possible — but  we  will  think  more  of  it." 


PLEASANT     TEACHINGS.  197 

Turner  placed  me  on  the  floor  as  he  spoke,  and,  taking 
Maria  on  one  side,  conversed  with  her  for  some  time.  Mean 
while  I  was  eager  to  reach  the  parsonage  once  more — I  felt  that 
Cora  would  be  expecting  me — that  I  might  even  be  wanted  by 
the  broken-hearted  man,  whose  grief  had  filled  my  whole  being 
with  sympathy. 

I  ran  up  stairs,  put  on  my  bonnet  and  little  black-  silk  man 
tilla  with  its  rich  garniture  of  lace,  ami  pulling  Turner  by  the 
coat,  gave  him  and  Maria  a  hasty  good  morning. 

"  Wait,"  said  the  kind  old  fellow,  seizing  my  hand — "  wait  a 
bit,  and  I  will  go  with  you.  All  that  I  dread,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  Maria,  "  is  the  questions  that  he  will  naturally  ask." 

"  Oh,  but  you  can  evade  them,"  answered  Maria. 

"  Yes,  by  telling  all  that  I  absolutely  know,  nothing  more 
nor  less,  and  that  every  servant  at  Greenhurst  can  confirm  ; 
I  must  stick  to  simple  facts,  no  conjectures  nor  convictions 
without  proof  ;  no  man  has  a  right  to  ask  them." 

I  had  gathered  a  basket  of  fruit  that  morning  before  the  dew 
was  off,  and  buried  the  glowing  treasure  beneath  a  quantity  of 
jessamine  and  daphua  blossoms,  for  some  intuition  told  me  that 
pure  white  flowers  were  most  fitted  for  the  house  of  mourning. 
With  this  precious  little  basket  on  my  arm,  I  waited  impatiently 
for  Turner  to  start,  if  he  was  indeed  going  with  me.  But  there 
were  hesitation  and  reluctance  in  his  manner,  though  at  last  he 
yielded  to  my  importunity,  and  we  set  out. 

It  was  a  pleasant  walk,  and  my  enjoyment  of  its  beauty  was 
perfect.  I  had  an  object,  something  to  fix  my  heart  upon  ;  the 
dreamy  portion  of  my  life  was  over  ;  I  began  to  know  myself 
as  a  thinking,  acting  being. 

We  entered  the  parsonage.  Mr.  Clarke  was  in  the  parlor, 
sitting  in  the  easy-chair^  exactly  as  I  had  left  him  the  day  before, 
with  his  silk  robe  on — and  his  eyes,  heavy  with  grief,  were  bent 
upon  the  floor.  Emboldened  by  the  affection  which  had  sprung 
up  in  my  heart  for  this  lone  man,  I  went  up  to  him  as  his  own 
child  might  have  done,  and  kissed  the  hand  which  fell  languidly 
by  his  side. 


198  PLEASANT     DATS     A-N  D 

He  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  but  resting  his  hand  on  my  head, 
whispered  softly, 

"  Bless  thee — bless  thee,  my  poor  orphan." 

He  evidently  mistook  me  for  his  own  child. 

"  It  is  not  little  Cora,  only  me,"  I  said — "  me  and  Mr.  Turner." 

He  looked  up,  saw  Turner  standing  near  the  door,  shook  his 
head  sadly,  and  dropped  into  the  old  position. 

I  swept  the  white  blossoms  to  one  end  of  my  basket  and  ex 
posed  the  cherries  underneath,  red  and  glowing  as  if  the  SUIT 
shine  that  had  ripened  them  were  breaking  back  to  the  surface 
again. 

"  I  picked  them  for  you  my  ownself,"  I  said,  holding  up  the 
basket — "  for  you  and  Cora." 

Poor  man,  his  lips  were  white  and  parched  ;  it  is  probable 
he  had  not  tasted  food  all  the  previous  day  !  With  a  patient, 
thoughtful  smile  he  took  a  cluster  of  the  cherries,  and  my  heart 
rose  as  I  saw  how  much  the  grateful  fruit  refreshed  him. 

"  This  is  a  strange  little  creature,"  he  said  at  last,  addressing 
Turner.  "  She  was  with  us  yesterday  ;  it  seemed  as  if  God 
had  sent  one  of  his  cherubs.  Truly  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  !" 

Dear  old  Turner,  how  his  face  began  to  work. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl — a  very  good  girl.  We've  done  all  we 
could  to  spoil  her  like  two  old  fools,  her  bonne  and  I ;  but 
somehow  she's  too  much  for  us  ;  as  for  the  spoiling,  it  isn't  to 
be  done." 

I  saw  Cora  through  an  open  door,  and  laying  a  double  hand 
ful  of  the  cherries  on  her  father's  robe,  ran  toward  her.  She 
looked  pale,  poor  thing,  and  her  sweet  eyes  were  dull  and  heavy. 
She  was  in  a  little  room  that  opened  to  the  parlor,  and,  still  in 
her  long  linen  night-gown,  and  with  her  golden  curls  breaking 
from  a  tiny  muslin  cap,  l&f  upon  the  cushions  of  a  chintz  sofa  ; 
for,  it  seems,  she  had  refused  to  be  taken  entirely  from  her 
father,  and  he  had  spent  his  night  in  the  easy-chair. 

"  Her  head  was  aching  terribly,"  she  said  ;  "  she  had  been 
awake  some  time,  but  papa  was  so  still  that  it  frightened  her. 


PLEASANT     TEACHINGS.  199 

She  was  afraid  that  he  had  gone  to  sleep  like  her  mother,  and 
never  would  wake  up  again." 

The  quick  sympathies  of  girlhood  soon  rendered  us  both  more 
cheerful.  She  began  to  smile  when  her  father's  voice  reached 
us,  and  refreshed  her  sweet  lips  with  my  cherries,  in  childish 
forgetfuluess  of  the  sorrow  that  had  rendered  them  so  pale. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said,  leaving  the  sofa;  and 
gathering  up  her  night-gown  till  both  rosy  little  feet  were  ex 
posed  upon  the  matting,  she  ran  to  a  side  door  and  looked  out, 
calling,  "  Sarah  Blake— Sarah  Blake  !" 

A  servant  girl,  plump  and  hearty,  with  little  grey  eyes,. and 
cheeks  red  as  the  cherries  in  my  basket,  answered  the  summons. 
She  looked  upon  me  with  apparent  curiosity  and  evident  kind 
ness,  and  taking  Cora  in  her  arms,  said,  "  so  this  is  the  strange 
little  lady." 

"  Isn't  she  nice  ?"  whispered  Cora.     "  Isn't  she  like  a  star  ?" 

"Yes,  she  is  a  nice  playmate;  I'm  glad  you've  found  her, 
Miss  Cora,  only  one  would  like  to  know  just  who  she  is." 

I  sat  down  on  the  matting,  as  the  door  closed  after  them, 
and  taking  up  the  white  flowers,  began  to  weave  them  into  a 
crown.  It  was  an  irresistible  habit,  that  of  sorting  and  com 
bining  any  flowers  that  came  within  my  reach.  I  often  did  this 
unconsciously,  and  with  a  sort  of  affectionate  carefulness,  for 
the  rude  handling  of  a  blossom  gave  me  pain.  It  seemed  to 
me  impossible  that  they  did  not  suffer  as  a  child  might ;  so, 
with  a  light  touch,  I  wove  my  garland  thick  and  heavy  with 
leaves  and  blossoms.  I  never  felt  lonely  when  flowers  were  my 
companions.  They  seemed  to  me  like  a  beautiful  alphabet 
which  God  had  given,  that  I  might  fashion  out  with  them  the 
mystic  language  of  my  own  heart. 

The  voices  of  Turner  and  the  curate  reached  me  from  the 
next  room.  They  were  conversing  in  a  low  tone,  but  I  could 
hear  that  the  stricken  man  was  shaking  off  the  apathy  of  his 
grief.  There  was  interest  and  depth  in  his  tone.  As  they 
talked,  the  door,  which  had  been  but  half  on  the  latch,  swung 
open  a  little,  and  I  heard  him  say, 


200  PLEASANT     DATS      AND 

"  It  is  a  strange  and  touching  history.  Have  you  made  any 
effort  to  learn  how  she  came  in  this  forlorn  condition  ?" 

"  Every  effort  that  a  human  being  could  make." 

"  And  you  have  literally  no  information  beyond  the  morning 
when  you  took  her  from  the  door-step  ?" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Cannot  she  herself  remember  enough  to  give  some  clue  ?" 

"  Illness  must  have  driven  everything  from  her  memory. 
The  mere  effort  to  recollect  seems  to  shake  her  very  existence. 
I  will  never  attempt  it  again." 

"  She  must  be  of  good  birth,"  said  the  curate,  thoughtfully, 
"  never  did  human  face  give  more  beautiful  evidence  of  gentle 
blood." 

"  I  never  doubted  that,"  answered  Turner,  quickly. 

"  Strange,  very  strange,"  murmured  the  curate. 

"  Is  there  any  hope  that  you  will  aid  ns,  sir  ?"  said  Turner, 
who  used  few  words  at  any  time,  and  evidently  found  the 
prolonged  deliberations  of  the  curate  annoying. 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?"  replied  the  curate,  gently.  "  I  thought 
that  was  settled  long  ago.  Were  she  the  poorest  vagrant  that 
ever  craved  alms,  I  would  do  my  best  to  aid  her.  As  it  is,  can 
I  ever  forget  yesterday  ?  Mr.  Turner,  we  sometimes  do  find 
angels  in  our  path.  This  one  we  shall  not  entertain  unawares. 
I  know  that  she  will  prove  a  blessing  to  this  desolated  house." 

I  dropped  the  flowers  in  my  lap,  and  began  to  listen  breath 
lessly.  His  beautiful  faith  in  my  future — his  solemn  trust  in 
the  good  that  was  in  me,  fell  like  an  inspiration  upon  my  soul. 
From  that  hour  my  devotion  to  that  good  man  and  his  daugh 
ter  was  a  religious  obligation — yes,  a  religious  obligation  before 
I  knew  what  religion  meant. 

"  Ah  !  if  she  had  only  been  near  to  help  us,"  said  the  curate, 
imJ  his  eyes  filled  with  those  quiet,  dewy  tears  with  which  God 
first  waters  a  grief-stricken  heart  before  he  lets  in  the  sunshine 
to  which  it  has  become  unused — tears  and  sunshine  that  some 
times  freshen  the  soul  again  with  more  than  the  brightness  of 
childhood. 


PLEASANT      TEACHINGS.  201 

A  strange  thought  came  over  me.  I  laid  down  the  wreath 
and  glided  softly  to  the  curate's  chair. 

"  They  told  us  yesterday  that  she  had  gone  to  God,"  I 
whispered,  looking  in  his  face  with  a  sort  of  holy  courage. 
"  Is  God  so  far  off  that  she  cannot  help  us  ?" 

The  curate  gazed  at  me  with  a  strange  expression  at  first, 
then  a  beautiful  smile  parted  his  lips,  and  laying  both  hands 
on  my  head,  he  looked  in  my  face  still  smiling,  while  his  eyes 
slowly  filled. 

That  moment  little  Cora  came  in.  Her  father  reached  forth 
his  hand  and  drew  her  arm  around  my  neck. 

"  Little  children,  love  one  another,"  he  said,  and  falling  back 
in  his  chair,  with  the  smile  still  upon  his  lips,  he  closed  his 
eyes,  but  great  tears  forced  themselves  from  under  the  lids  and 
rolled  slowly  downward. 

I  drew  back  with  the  child,  and  with  our  arms  interlinked 
we  glided  into  the  next  room.  I  took  up  my  crown  of  white 
•blossoms,  and,  as  if  she  read  the  thought  in  my  bosom,  Cora 
whispered,  "  Mamma,  is  it  for  her  ?"  We  stole  through  the 
parlor  again,  and  went  out.  The  curate  sat  with  his  eyes 
closed,  and  Turner  had  an  elbow  on  each  knee,  with  both  hands 
supporting  his  forehead. 

Without  speaking  a  word,  Cora  and  I  turned  an  angle  of  the 
church  and  entered  the  grave-yard.  It  looked  more  cheerful 
than  it  had  appeared  the  day  before.  Long  glances  of  sunshine 
shot  across  it,  and  some  stray  birds  had  lost  themselves  in  thd 
cypress  trees,  and  seemed  trying  to  sing  their  way  out. 

We  laid  our  garland  down  upon  the  bleak,  new  grave  of 
CorVs  mother,  just  over  the  spot  where  we  knew  her  cold  heart 
was  sleeping.  Its  faint  perfume  spread  like  an  angeFs  breatli 
all  over  the  grave,  and  we  went  softly  away,  feeling  that  she 
knew  what  we  had  done. 

From  that  day  my  life  was  divided  between  the  parsonage 
and  the  only  home  I  had  ever  known.  Turner  had  proved  a 
more  efficient  consoler  of  the  curate  than  a  thousand  sermons 
could  have  been.  In  the  hour  of  his  deepest  grief,  he  had 

9* 


202  PLEASANT     DAYS     AND 

opened  a  new  channel  for  his  affections  "as  new  means  of  use 
fulness.  The  overpowering  anguish,  that  had  almost  swept  him 
from  the  earth  in  twenty-four  hours,  never  returned  again.  He 
would  often  say,  looking  upon  us  children  with  a  peaceful  smile, 

"  She  is  with  God,  and  He  is  everywhere." 

None  but  a  good  man  could  have  been  so  easily  won  from 
such  a  grief  by  the  simple  power  to  aid  others,  for  his  wife  had 
been  the  most  devoted  and  loving  creature  that  the  sun  ever 
shone  upon,  and  her  death  was  sudden  as  the  flash  of  lightning 
that  darts  from  a  summer  cloud.  A  disease  of  the  heart,  in 
sidious  and  unsuspected  till  the  moment  of  her  death,  left  her 
lifeless,  in  the  morning,  upon  the  pillow  to  which  she  had 
retired  at  night  with  trusting  prayers  and  innocent  smiles. 

Thus  I  became  the  pupil  of  Mr.  Clarke — the  sister,  nay, 
more  than  the  sister  of  his  child;  and  now,  heart  and  mind,  my 
whole  nature  began  to  expand.  My  profound  ignorance  of  life 
was  slowly  enlightened.  The  history  of  my  native  land  was  no 
longer  a  sealed  book.  I  began  to  comprehend  the  distinctions 
that  existed  in  society — the  principles  of  government,  the 
glorious  advantages  which  follow  each  step  that  nations  take 
toward  freedom.  I  confess  it  took  me  a  long  time  to  compre 
hend  why  one  man  should,  without  effort  of  his  own,  possess 
lands  which  stretched  from  horizon  to  horizon,  like  Lord  Clare, 
while  others,  who  toiled  from  sun  to  sun,  could  scarce  secure 
the  necessaries  of  existence;  nor  have  I  yet  solved  the  question 
satisfactorily  to  my  sense  of  right. 

No  life  can  be  really  monotonous  in  which  taste  is  gratified 
and  knowledge  acquired;  certainly  not  where  the  heart  is 
allowed  to  put  forth  its  natural  affections  and  weave  them 
around  worthy  objects. 

Cora  and  I  took  our  lessons  together,  but  she  had  little  of 
that  eager  thirst  for  knowledge  which  possessed  me.  Gentle, 
caressing  and  indolent,  to  escape  her  lessons  was  a  relief,  while 
I  devoured  mine,  and  found  time  for  the  gratification  of  a 
thousand  fancies  that  she  was  ready  to  praise,  but  unwilling  to 
share. 


PLEASANT     TEACHINGS.  203 

It  is  said  that  wome"h  of  opposite  natures  are  most  likely  to 
find  sympathy  with  each  other.  I  do  not  believe  this,  either  in 
men  or  women,  f  In  order  to  perfect  companionship,  tastes, 
habits,  intellectual  aspirations,  nay,  even  physical  health  must 
assimilate.^ 

I  believe  no  human  being  ever  loved  another  more  thoroughly 
than  I  loved  Cora  Clarke. ,  To  say  that  I  would  have  given  my 
life  to  save  hers  would  be  little,  for  life  is  not  always  the 
greatest  sacrifice  one  human  soul  can  make  to  another.  But  I 
would  have  yielded  up  any  one  of  the  great  hopes  of  my  exis 
tence,  could  the  sacrifice  have  secured  her  happiness.  But  in 
less  than  three  years  I  had  outgrown  Cora's  companionship. 
My  love,  though  unbounded,  had  a  sense  of  protection  in  it.  It 
was  the  caressing  attachment  of  a  mother  for  her  child,  or  an 
elder  sister  for  her  orphan  charge. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  companionship  so  essential  to 
my  character  was  found  more  thoroughly  in  the  father  than 
the  child.  He  never  wearied  of  teaching,  and  I  never  remem 
ber  to  have  become  tired  of  learning.  My  appreciation  of  all 
his  arguments — and  they  were  vast — was  perfect.  My  love  for 
him  was  more  than  that  of  a  daughter  for  her  parent. 

From  the  time  I  first  entered  his  house,  I  felt  a  conviction 
that,  in  some  way,  the  love  that  I  bore  for  these  two  persons 
would  be  brought  into  powerful  action — that  I  should  be  called 
upon  to  support  them  in  great  troubles,  and  that  my  own 
destiny  was  in  some  mystical  way  bound  up  in  them.  Thus 
time  passed  happily  enough,  till  I  reached  my  eleventh  year. 
Lord  Clare  was  still  abroad  in  the  far  east,  it  was  said,  and 
I  had  begun  to  think  of  him  as  one  dwells  upon  the  charac 
ters  in  a  history.  The  name  had  become  familiar  now,  and  I 
ceased  to  feel  any  extraordinary  interest  in  it  such  as  had  first 
impressed  me. 

Certainly  I  knew  something  of  his  history.  Mr.  Clarke  hud 
told  me  of  the  sudden  and  singular  death  which  had  overtaken 
Lady  Clare  on  the  night  of  her  marriage,  and  of  the  great 
probability  that  the  earl  would  never  marry  again,  in  which 


204:  MY     STRANGE     ACQUAINTANCE. 

case  his  sister,  and  through  her  his  nephew,  the  Etonian, 
would  come  in  possession  of  the  title  and  several  large  estates 
entailed  with  it.  * 

One  thing,  I  remember,  interested  me  a  good  deal,  for  I  was 
at  the  time  informing  myself  regarding  the  hereditary  privi 
leges  of  the  British  nobility,  and  it  was  fixed  upon  my  memory 
that  this  particular  title,  and  its  estates,  descended  alike  to 
male  or  female  heirs,  as  they  happened  to  fall  in  succession, 
while  a  large  property,  acquired  by  Lord  Clare's  marriage, 
might  be  disposed  of  by  deed  or  will. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

MY     STRANGE     ACQUAINTANCE. 

I  STILL  possessed  Jupiter,  my  beautiful  black  pony,  ana 
frequently  rode  him  to  the  parsonage,  taking  a  canter  over  the 
park  before  returning  home.  Greenhurst  remained  unoccupied, 
except  by  a  servant  or  two,  and  my  freedom  in  this  respect 
was  unchecked,  because  Turner  supposed  it  to  be  without 
danger  of  any  kind. 

One  day — I  think  this  was  a  month  after  I  entered  upon  my 
twelfth  year — I  took  a  fine  free  gallop  toward  a  portion  of 
the  park  which  has  been  mentioned  as  commanding  a  view  of 
Marston  Court.  * 

I  checked  my  pony  on  a  ridge  of  upland,  and  was  looking 
toward  this  house  which,  from  the  first,  had  contained  a  mys 
terious  interest  to  me,  when  a  man  came  suddenly  from  behind 
a  clump  of  trees  at  my  right1,  and  walking  up  to  Jupiter,  threw 
his  arm  over  the  animal's  neck. 

I  was  not  terrified,  but  this  abrupt  movement  filled  me  with 
surprise,  and,  without  speaking  a  word,  I  bent  my  gaze  search- 
ingly  on  his  face  and  figure. 


MY      STRANGE      ACQUAINTANCE.  205 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  spare  and  muscular,  of  swarthy 
complexion,  and  with  eyes  so  black  and  burning  in  their  glance, 
that  mine  sunk  under  them  as  if  they  had  come  in  sudden  con 
tact  with  fire. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?"  he  said,  still  keeping  those  fierce 
eyes  on  my  face. 

"Take  your  arm  off  Jupiter's  neck,"  I  answered,  "  he  is  not 
used  to  strangers." 

He  laughed,  revealing  a  row  of  firm,  white  teeth,  that  gave 
a  ferocious  expression  to  his  whole  countenance. 

"  I  am  almost  answered,"  he  said,  with  a  low  chuckle,  "  the 
blood  spoke  out  there  !" 

His  language  was  broken,  and  his  appearance  strange.  I 
was  sure  that  he  came  from  foreign  parts,  and  looked  at  him 
with  curiosity  unmixed  with  fear. 

"  Take  your  arm  away,"  I  repeated,  angrily,  "  you  shall  not 
hurt  my  horse  !"  .  , 

He  removed  his  arm  with  another  laugh,  and  then  said,  in  a 
tone  that  gave  me  a  sensation  nearer  affright  than  I  had  yet 
known — 

"  Well,  my  little  queen,  I  have  taken  my  arm  away  ;  now 
tell  me  your  name." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  know  it  ?"  I  demanded. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  a  reason — perhaps  not — only  tell  me,  if  it 
is  no  secret," 

"  My  name  is  Zana,"  I  answered,  reddening,  for  somehow  the 
subject  had  become  painful  to  me. 

11  In  England,  people  have  two  names,"  he  replied. 

"  But  I  have  only  one." 

"  And  that  is  Zana — nothing  more,  ha  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you." 

"  That  should  be  enough,"  he  muttered,  "  but  it  is  well  to 
be  certain.  Where  do  you  live  ?"  he  added. 

"Down  yonder,"  I  replied,  pointing  with  my  whip  in  the 
direction  of  my  home. 

"In  a  stone   house,  cut  up  with   galleries,   notched   with 


206  MY     STKANGE     ACQUAINTANCE. 

balconies,  buried  in  trees  and  smothered  in  flowers?"  he  de 
manded. 

"  That  is  my  home,"  I  replied,  astonished  at  the  accuracy 
of  his  description. 

"  And  how  long  have  you  lived  there  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  why  you  ask,  but  it  is  no  secret.  I  have 
lived  there  six  years." 

"  That  is,  since  about  the  time  that  Lady  Clare  died,"  he 
observed,  as  if  making  a  calculation. 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  was  my  answer. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  in  a  courteous 
voice, 

"  Who  is  your  father  ?" 

I  had  learned  to  blush  at  my  incapacity  to  answer  this  ques 
tion,  and  when  it  was  thus  abruptly  put,  the  temper  burned  in 
my  cheek.  Rising  up  haughtily  in  my  stirrup,  I  gave  the 
bridle  an  abrupt  pull,  and  poor  Jupiter  a  lash  that  set  him  off 
like  an  arrow.  He  almost  knocked  the  man  down.  I  looked 
back  to  Jearn  if  he  was  harmed.  He  called  after  me  in  a  lan 
guage  that  I  had  never  heard  spoken  before,  at  least  that  I 
could  remember,  but  I  understood  it.  The  man  was  showering 
curses  upon  me  or  my  horse. 

After  the  appearance  of  this  singular  man.  the  monotony  of 
my  life  broke  up.  I  became  restless  and  self-centred,  speaking 
of  his  presence  in  the  park  to  no  one,  but  thinking  of  it  with 
continued  wonder.  Some  mysterious  sympathy,  wild  and  pain 
ful,  but  oh,  how  intense,  drew  me  toward  this  strange  being. 
I  feared,  yet  longed  for  his  presence — longed  to  hear  again  that 
language  at  once  so  strange  and  so  familiar,  that  had  fallen  as 
yet  only  in  curses  on  my  ear,  but  still  carrying  a  fierce  sort  of 
fascination  with  it. 

I  rode  to  the  portion  of  the  park  where  I  had  seen  him,  again 
and  again,  and  sitting  on  my  poiiy,  searched  every  dingle  and 
group  of  trees,  expecting  each  moment  to  see  him  start,  .brigand- 
like,  from  the  leafy  gloom.  But  he  did  not  come,  and,  filled  with 
restless  disappointment,  J  at  length  sunk  into  the  ordinary  occu- 


THE     INVOLUNTARY     HUNT.  207 

pations  of  life,  but  with  an  unsettled  feeling  that  had  never 
possessed  me  before. 

By  this  time  I  knew  that  some  mystery  was  attached  to  my 
life — that  I  was  nameless,  motherless,  fatherless.  In  short,  that 
tlike  a  wild  hare  or  a  wounded  bird,  I  had  been  picked  up  in 
charity  by  the  wayside,  and  in  charity  nurtured  by  that  unique 
Spanish  woman  and  old  Turner.  I  felt  this  keenly.  As  igno 
rance  was  swept  from  my  mind,  the  painful  mystery  that  clung 
around  me  darkened  my  soul  with  a  feeling  of  unspeakable 
desolation.  I  had  learned  what  shame  was,  and  felt  it  to  my 
heart's  core  every  time  my  want  of  name  or  connections  was 
alluded  to.  Still  the  entire  force  of 'this  isolation,  the  effect  it 
might  have  upon  my  after  life  and  character,  could  not  be  felt 
in  all  its  poignancy,  as  it  was  in  later  times.  But  its  mistiness, 
the  indefinite  form  which  every  thing  regarding  my  past  history 
took,  made  myself  a  subject  of  perpetual  thought.  Upon  my 
memory  there  was  a  constant,  but  unavailing  strain.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  dark  curtain  in  my  mind,  hiding  all  that  my 
soul  panted  to  know,  but  which  I  had  lost  all  power  to  lift  or 
disturb.  Thus  time  wore  heavily — heavily  months  and  mouths 
— still  I  saw  no  more  of  the  man  whose  memory  hung  about 
me^like  a  superstition,  which  I  had  neither  power  nor  wish  to 
throw  off. 


CHAPTER     XXX. 

THE    INVOLUNTARY    HUNT    AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES. 

AT  last  an  event  arose  that  completely  destroyed  the  beauti 
ful,  but  dull  quietude  of  our  lives.  -Lord  Clare's  sister  arrived 
unexpectedly  at  Greenhurst,  and  a  large  party  were  to  follow 
her  and  her  son  down  from  London,  to  spend  the  shooting 
season. 


208  THE     INVOLUNTARY      HUNT 

i 

This  sudden  invasion  of  the  woods  and  grounds  that  had 
been  exclusively  ours  for  so  many  years,  was  a  source  of  great 
annoyance  to  old  Turner.  His  usual  quaint  good-humor  was 
sadly  disturbed.  He  seemed  quite  beside  himself  with  anxiety, 
and  nervously  besought  me  to  give  up  my  usual  rides,  and. 
remain  confined  to  the  house  if  possible  during  the  time  Lady 
Catherine  and  her  son  might  remain  at  Greenhurst. 

This  was  askiug'much  of  a  young  creature  just  verging  into 
girlhood,  and  full  of  a  strong,  fresh  curiosity  for  seeing  and  feel 
ing  the  life  of  which  she  began  to  know  herself  a  vital  part. 
Besides,  I  was  a  creature  of  the  open  air.  No  bird  ever  felt  a 
keener  necessity  for  the  bright  atmosphere,  and  all  the  rich 
beauty  of  out-door  life.  Shut  up  in  the  house,  I  was  like  a 
wild  lark  in  its  cage,  moaning,  moping,  and  with  no  hearty 
relish  of  existence  left  in  me.  I  wished  to  obey  good  old  Tur 
ner.  He  was  so  anxious  on  the  point,  and  seemed  so  grieved 
at  the  idea  of  depriving  me  of  a  single  pleasure,  that  had  the 
thing  been  possible,  I  would  have  kept  myself  a  prisoner  for 
weeks  rather  than  increase  his  unaccountable  perturbation. 

But  he  was  seldom  with  us  now,  that  kind,  strange  man,  and 
my  confinement  became  terrible — when  would  it  end  ?  How 
long  was  I,  who  had  never  been  confined  in-doors  a  whole  day 
in  my  life,  unless  in  that  one  fever — how  was  I  to  endure  weeks 
and  weeks  of  this  dull  imprisonment  ? 

It  was  too  much.  Not  even  to  please  Turner  could  I  submit 
to  this  longer. 

One  day,  I  think  it  was  the  fourth,  my  restless  spirit  broke 
bounds.  I  took  an  opportunity  when  Maria  was  occupied,  to 
steal  out  into  the  open  air.  Jupiter's  stable,  a  pretty  building 
that  might  have  passed  for  a  summer-house,  stood  a  little  back 
from  the  kitchen  garden,  and  I  heard  him  neighing  sharply,  as 
if  he,  like  his  mistress,  were  beginning  to  rebel. 

For  some  reason,  I  never  knew  what,  except  that  Turner 
disliked  to  have  servants  about  our  place,  the  old  man  had 
always  taken  care  of  Jupiter  with  his  own  hands.  With  so 
few  objects  of  love,  I  natarally  often  followed  him  to  the  pretty 


AND     ITS     CONSEQUENCES.  209 

building  where  Jupiter  was  stalled,  more  like  a  fairy  courser 
than  the  matchless  pony  he  was. 

The  pleasant  neigh  which  the  animal  set  up  as  I  approached, 
awoke  all  the  wild-wood  spirit  that  Turner's  interdict  had  kept 
down  in  my  bosom  so  long.  I  ran  to  the  stable,  dragged  the 
side-saddle  with  its  pretty  embroidered  trappings  from  its 
closet,  and  girded  it  breathlessly  upon  Jupiter's  back.  The 
creature  seemed  eager  as  myself  to  be  upon  the  hill-side.  His 
ears  quivered  with  delight  ;  he  rubbed  his  head  against  my 
shoulder  with  a  mellow  whimper,  and  opened  his  mouth  for  the 
bit  the  moment  he  saw  the  embossed  bridle  in  my  hand. 

Patting  him  on  the  back  with  a  promise  of  speedy  return,  I 
entered  the  house,  ran  up  to  my  room,  and  hurried  on  my  habit 
of  soft  green  cloth,  and  the  beaver  hat  with  a  long  black  ostrich 
plume  that  floated  from  one  side. 

The  blood  was  hot  in  my  cheek  as  I  tied  the  hat  on.  With 
out  staying  to  twist  up  the  curls  that  floated  away  with  the 
feather  in  picturesque  confusion,  I  ran  off  to  the  stables,  hud 
dling  up  the  skirt  of  my  riding-dress  with  both  hands. 

I  knew  that  it  was  wrong — that  I  should  be  sorry  enough 
for  it  before  night,  but  in  my  willfulness  this  only  gave  a  keener 
zest  to  the  enjoyment  I  proposed  to  myself. 

Away  we  went,  Jupiter  and  I,  dashing  through  the  trees, 
over  the  velvet  sward,  and  across  the  broad  avenues,  along 
which  the  morning  sunshine  lay  in  rivers  of  light.  The  branches 
rained  down  their  ripe  brown  and  golden  leaves  on  me  as  I 
passed  ;  and  a  crisp  white  frost  that  lay  like  quicksilver  among 
the  grass,  gave  forth  a  rasping  sound  more  exhilarating  than 
music,  as  Jupiter's  feet  flew  over  it.  The  air  was  clear  and 
bright,  with  mingled  frost  and  sunshine  as  it  fell  upon  my  face 
and  swept  my  garments.  The  blood  kindled  like  wine  in  my 
veins.  I  was  wild  with  the  joyousness  of  free  motion,  ready 
for  leaping  a  ditch,  flying  through  the  air — any  thing  wild  or 
daring  that  had  life  and  quick  motion  in  it. 

Away  we  went  toward  the  uplands,  from  which  a  view  of 
Marston  Court  could  be  obtained.  I  thought  of  the  strange 


210  THE     INVOLUNTARY      HUNT 

man  who  had  surprised  me  on  that  spot  as  we  rushed  along — 
laughed  aloud  as  I  remembered  how  Jupiter  and  I  had  baffled 
him  once,  how  ready  we  were  to  do  it  again.  I  longed  to  see 
him,  not  for  any  specified  purpose.  Nothing  then  was  import 
ant  enough  to  have  kept  me  motionless  a  moment.  But  abroad 
as  I  was,  with  a  wild  thirst  for  adventure  of  any  kind,  it  would 
have  been  something  like  the  excitement  I  wanted,  could  the 
mysterious  language  with  which  he  cursed  me  have  threatened 
us  with  danger  once  more. 

But  though  I  searched  for  this  being,  riding  around  and  over 
the  eminence  on  which  he  had  appeared  but  once,  nothing  but 
the  cool,  beautiful  solitude  rewarded  me.  The  luxurious  stretch 
of  country  between  me  and  Marston  Court,  brown,  hazy,  and 
many-tinted,  with  the  picturesque  old  building  looming  up 
through  the  rich  shadows — all  its  clear  outlines  drowned  in  soft 
autumnal  colors — all  its  hoariness  and  age  mellowed  down  and 
lost  in  the  dreamy  distance — this  rare  view,  with  the  upland 
on  which  we  stood,  was  wrapped  in  quiet.  Not  a  human  being 
was  in  sight. 

A  strange  desire  seized  me  to  visit  this  building,  which  had 
so  often  charmed  me  with  its  loneliness  and  beauty.  It  was 
some  miles  distant.  I  knew  that,  but  Jupiter  had  merely  tried 
his  strength  as  yet,  simply  breathed  himself  in  our  progress  to 
the  uplands.  He  had  been  shut  up  in  the  stable  for  days,  and 
seemed  as  wild  for  action  as  his  mistress. 

"  Shall  we  try  it,  Jupiter  ?"  I  said,  smoothing  his  mane  with 
my  whip.  "  There  is  a  glorious  run  for  us,  Jupiter,  as  we  have 
determined  to  be  disobedient  and  naughty.  Ju  !  suppose  we 
do  something  worth  while  ?" 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice,  the  pony  began  to  quiver  his 
ears,  and  snuffed  the  air  saucily,  as  if  he  knew  some  mischief 
was  afloat,  and  was  eager  for  his  share. 

"  Come,  then,"  and  I  gathered  up  the  bridle,  shaking  it  glee 
fully.  Jupiter  gave  his  head  a  toss,  and  away  we  went  toward 
Marston  Court. 

The  eminence  lay  behind,  and  we  were  in  a  thickly  wooded 


AND     ITS     CONSEQUENCES.  211 

little  valley,  moving  rather  slowly,  «for  I  was  charmed  by  broken 
glimpses  of  a  small  stream  that  flashed  up  from  the  shadows, 
when  the  baying  of  hounds,  the  tramp  of  horses,  and  a  wild 
confusion  of  sounds  swept  down  the  hollow.  Before  I  could 
tighten  my  reins,  a  stag  shot  by  me,  so  close  that  Jupiter 
reared  with  a  wild  snort,  almost  flinging  me  backward  from  the 
saddle. 

The  stag,  a  noble  animal,  cleared  the  stream  with  one  des 
perate  bound,  and  for  ail  instant  I  saw  him  turn  his  great,  wild 
eyes,  glowing  with  pain  and  terror  through  the  shadows. 
Blood-specked  foam  dropped  from  his  jaws;  and  his  strained 
limbs  quivered  with  an  agony  of  terror,  that  made  me  tremble 
upon  my  saddle  with  sympathy. 

As  I  looked,  the  poor  animal,  whose  head  was  beginning  to 
droop,  gave  a  sudden  start,  flung  up  his  antlers,  and  with  a 
desperate  staggering  leap  disappeared  up  the  valley.  I  had 
not  caught  my  breath  again,  when  down  through  the  opposite 
gorge  came  a  train  of  hounds,  leaping  forward  with  cruel 
ferocity,  some  breast  to  breast,  others  in  single  file,  but  all  with 
great,  savage  eyes  and  open  jaws,  howling  and  baying  out  their 
blood-thirsty  eagerness.  They  rushed  by  me,  some  on  one  side 
of  Jupiter,  some  qn  the  other,  spotting  his  black  coat  with 
flakes  of  foam,  and  making  him  start  with  the  fury  of  their 
noise. 

For  myself,  I  struck  at  the  dogs  with  my  whip,  and  madly 
flung  it  after  them.  My  sympathy  for  the  poor  stag  was  a 
pang  of  such  agony  that  it  made  me  wild.  But  they  swept 
away  like  the  wind,  howling  back,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  their 
brutal  defiance  and  derision  of  my  helplessness. 

Then  like  the  rush  of  a  tempest,  heavy  with  thunder  and  red 
with  lightning,  came  the  hunt.  The  flaming  uniforms;  those 
dark  horses;  the  long  riding  shirts,  streaming  back  like  dusky 
banners;  ostrich  plumes  flashing  blackly  upon  the  strong  cur 
rent  of  wind  created  by  the  quick  motion  of  their  owners.  All 
this  rushed  by  me,  as  I  have  said,  like  a  sudden  storm. 

Directly  over  the  spot  where  we  stood  bore  down  the  hunt, 


212  THE     INVOLUNTARY     HUNT 

sweeping  us  away  with  it  as  a  swollen  stream  tosses  onward  the 
straws  which  it  encounters. 

The  stag  was  nearly  run  down;  the  hunters  were  becoming 
tired;  but  Jupiter  was  fresh  as  a  lark,  and  held  his  own  bravely 
with  the  most  noble-blooded  hunter  of  them  all. 

The  hounds  were  yelling,  like  fiends,  ahead.  Some  one 
called  out  that  the  stag  was  at  bay.  A  huntsman,  all  in  scar 
let,  shot  out  from  the  rest  onward  like  an  arrow.  Jupiter  made 
a  sudden  bound.  It  may  be  in  the  fierce  excitement  that  I 
urged  him,  but  he  gave  a  great  leap,  and  kept  neck  and  neck 
with  the  huntsman. 

Beneath  a  pile  of  rocks  that  choked  up  one  end  of  the  val 
ley,  the  poor  stag  was  run  down.  With  his  delicate  fore  hoofs 
lifted  up  with  a  desperate  effort  at  another  spring,  he  stood 
one  instant  with  his  head  turned  back,  and  his  great,  agonized 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  dogs.  The  rocks  were  too  high.  His  poor 
limbs  exhausted,  he  could  not  make  the  leap,  but  wheeled  back 
and  desperately  tossed  the  first  hound,  who  fell  with  a  yelp 
upon  the  stones. 

But  the  whole  pack  was  upon  him,  scrambling  up  the  rocks, 
and  marking  fiercely  for  his  throat  from  all  points. 

"  Save  him — save  him  !"  I  shouted,  striking  Jupiter  with  my 
clenched  hand.  "  Save  him — save  him  I" 

I  rushed  by  the  huntsman.  Hitherto  we  had  kept,  as  I  have 
said,  neck  and  neck ;  but  Jupiter  felt  the  sting  of  my  blow,  and 
gave  a  mad  bound  that  brought  us  in  the  midst  of  the  dogs.  I 
still  urged  him  on,  striving  to  trample  down  the  fierce  brutes 
beneath  his  hpofs.  The  stag  knew  it,  I  do  believe.  The  poor 
animal  felt  that  I  was  his  friend.  No  human  eyes  ever  had  a 
deeper  agony  of  appeal  in  them.  I  sprang  from  Jupiter's 
back  down  among  the  dogs,  and  cast  myself  before  their 
victim. 

I  saw  the  huntsman  leap  from  his  horse  and  plunge  among 
the  dogs. 

"  Move — come  away,  the  hounds  will  tear  you  to  pieces,"  he 
shouted,  beating  fiercely  about  with  his  whip. 


AND      ITS      CONSEQUENCES.  213 

"They  shall  not  kill  him;  call  them  off,  I  say,  these  beasts 
shall  not  kill  him,"  I  shrieked,  in  reply. 

"  That  moment  a  hound  sprang  upon  me,  tearing  my  riding- 
skirt,  and  almost  bringing  me  to  the  earth. 

I  cried  aloud,  but  not  with  fear.  The  excitement  was  ter 
rible,  but  there  was  no  cowardice  in  it. 

"  Great  heavens  I  she  will  be  devoured,"  I  heard  him  say; 
then  he  leaped  like  a  flame  upon  the  dog,  and  grappling  him  by 
the  throat,  bore  him  backward  to  the  earth. 

"  Now  run,  run  !"  he  cried,  panting  with  the  hound  in  his 
power. 

"  No  !"  I  answered  stoutly,  "  they  will  tear  him  to  pieces  if 
I  do.  Keep  them  off-— keep  them  off." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  wrestled  more  fiercely  with  the 
hound. 

That  moment  the  whole  hunt  came  up,  men,  keepers,  and 
women  surrounding  us  in  their  gorgeous  dresses  like  a  battalion 
of  cavalry. 

I  heard  a  clamor  of  voices,  the  shrieks  of  women,  the  ex 
cited  shouts  of  huntsmen  giving  orders.  Keepers  rushed  in 
among  the  hounds  with  their  clubs.  In  a  few  moments  the 
dogs  were  driven  back  crouching  and  snarling  among  their 
masters.  I  stood  alone  by  the  poor  stag,  with  a  host  of  eyes 
upon  me;  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  began  to  tremble. 

"  Here,"  said  a  stout  old  squire,  whose  white  hair  fell  like 
snow  from  under  the  close  hunting  cap,  "  here,  George  Irving, 
you  have  won  the  right  to  cut  his  throat.  Thomas,  where  is 
the  knife  ?" 

A  keeper  came  forward,  presenting  a  sharp  hunting-knife. 

"  You  will  not — you  will  not,"  I  said,  clasping  my  hands,  and 
standing  face  to  face  with  the  youth  who  had  saved  me.  I  felt 
that  my  lips  were  quivering,  and  that  great  tears  were  drop 
ping  like  hail-stones  down  my  burning  cheeks — "  you  will  not." 

"  No,"  answered  the  youth,  taking  the  knife  and  holding  it 
toward  me.  "It  is  not  mine,  this  brave  child  was  in  first.  I 


214  THE     INVOLTJNTAKY     HUNT 

found  her,  like  the  stag,  at  bay,  braving  the  hounds.  Tell  me, 
shall  not  the  life  of  this  animal  be  hers  ?" 

A  loud  hallo  answered  him,  echoed  by  a  chorus  of  musical 
female  voices. 

The  youth  reached  forth  his  knife  again*  but  I  rejected  it. 
The  stag  was  safe,  and  my  heart  so  full  of  joy,  that  I  felt  it 
breaking  all  over  me.  The  noble  face  before  me  brightened  as 
if  from  the  reflection  of  mine,  and  for  the  first  time  I  saw  that 
it  was  a  very  3  oung  man  who  had  saved  me.  Young  and — but 
I  will  not  describe  him — for  upon  his  features  at  that  moment 
there  was  something  of  which  no  language  can  give  the  least 
idea. 

I  felt  the  blood  rushing  up  to  my  face,  for  now  all  things 
became  clear,  and  I  knew  that  a  score  of  strange  eyes  were 
wondering  at  me.  The  feather  in  my  hat  was  broken,  and  fell 
prone  upon  my  shoulder  ;  my  skirt  had  been  badly  wrenched 
and  mangled  by  the  dogs  ;  their  muddy  foot-prints  were  tram 
pled  all  over  it  ;  a  morbid'  sense  of  the  beautiful  made  me 
shrink  with  shame,  as  I  saw  all  those  eyes  fixed  upon  my 
dilapidated  state. 

"•  Where  is  Jupiter  ?"  I  said,  turning  to  my  young  friend. 
'  Will  you  search  for  him,  I  should  like  to  go  away  ?" 

But  my  pony  had  retreated  beyond  the  crowd,  and  could  not 
be  seen.  This  increased  my  distress.  I  sat  down  upon  a  stone, 
and  looking  at  the  exhausted  stag,  began  to  think  myself  the 
most  miserable  object  of  the  two. 

I  heard  a  buzz  of  voices  around  me,  and  could  distinguish 
the  words,  "  Who  is  it  ?  She  is  strange  to  every  one  here. 
Where  can  the  picturesque  creature  have  sprung  from  ?" 

That  moment  a  pang  shot  through  my  heart.  Who  indeed 
was  I  ?  How  came  I  there  ?  By  a  gross  act  of  disobedience 
to  my  best  friend  ?  I  felt  that  my  face  was  bathed  with 
blushes  and  with  tears  ;  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was 
ashamed  of  myself. 

A  lady  rode  close  up  to  me,  so  close  that  her  skirts  swept  my 
shoulder. 


AND     ITS      CONSEQUENCES.  215 

/ 

"  Whose  little  girl  are  you  ?"  she  said.  "  You  are  by  far 
too  young  for  a  scene  like  this." 

I  looked  up  and  knew  the  face.     It  was  Lady  Catherine 
Irving,  a  little  more  spare,  and  with  a  host  of  fine  wrinkles 
accumulated  on  her  haughty  face,  but  with  the   same   cold, 
white  complexion  ;  the  same  self-satisfied  look. 

"Ah,  you  seem  to  know  me,"  she  said,  settling %her  beaver 
hat  with  one  hand.  "  Now  tell  me  your  name  ;  don't  be 
afraid." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  not  in  the  least,"  I  answered.  "  Why 
should  I  be  ?" 

"  True  enough  ;  what  a  bright  little  wood-nymph  it  is,"  she 
continued,  smiling  back  upon  two  scarlet  clad  gentlemen  behind 
her.  "  I  suppose  there  really  is  nothing  superlatively  frightful 
about  me — ha  1" 

"  Something  superlatively  the  reverse,"  answered  the  gentle 
man  thus  challenged. 

"  You  hear,  little  wood-nymph,"  she  said,  after  appropriat 
ing  this  compliment  with  a  bend  of  the  head,  "  there  is  nothing 
to  fear,  so  speak  out.  Where  do  you  live  ?  How  came  you 
among  all  these  gentlemen  and  ladies  ?" 

•  "  I  live   in   the  park,  near  Greenhurst,  madam,  with  Mr. 
Turner  "— 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Catherine,  with  a  sharp  glance  at 
my  face.  "  Go  home,  child — how  came  you  here  ?" 

"  I  came  on  my  pony,  madam." 

II  But  the  hunt,  what  on  earth  brought  you  there  ?"  cried 
the  lady,  seeming  to  become  more  and  more  displeased. 

"  The  hunt — if  all  this  company  means  that — came  across 
me,  and  carried  Jupiter  and  I  along.". 

"  But  how  came  you  dismounted  and  among  the  hounds  ?" 

"  They  were  all  upon  the  poor  stag,  and  I  could  not  bear  it," 
I  replied,  simply. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  young  man  walking  close  to  the  lady 
and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  let  us  take  some  other  time  for 
questioning  her.  Lead  off  the  party,  so  many  persons  terrify 
the  poor  child." 


216  MY     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT. 

"  Mount  your  horse  then,"  she  replied,  sharply,  "  I  will  see 
you  again  child.  I  must  have  some  explanation  of  all  this. 
You  are  right,  George,  this  is  no  place.  Mount — mount  !" 

The"  youth  hesitated,  looked  at  me,  at  the  stag,  and  then 
rather  wistfully  at  his  mother. 

"  We  are  waiting,"  she  said,  with  an  impatient  wave  of  her 
whip,  and  a  glance  at  me  that  brought  a  flash  of  red  to  my 
cheeks.  I,  in  my  innocence,  thought  that  she  was  displeased 
with  the  torn  state  of  my  poor  dress. 

The  youth  mounted,  and  the  hunt  dispersed,  breaking  up 
into  groups  and  pairs,  and  scattering  a  red  gleam  through  the 
woods. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

MY     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT. 

I  WAS  left  alone,  I  and  the  poor  trembling,  exhausted  stag, 
who  lay  partly  upon  his  knees,  gazing  at  me  through  his  filmy 
and  half  shut  eyes. 

I  looked  around  for  Jupiter,  but  he  was  not  to  be  seen — no 
living  thing  but  the  worried  stag  and  myself  in  all  that  dim 
solitude. 

A  sense  of  exhaustion  and  of  loneliness  fell  upon  me.  My 
heart  grew  mournful,  and  the  poor  stag  with  his  stiffened  limbs 
and  the  foam  dried  on  his  lips,  filled  me  with  compassion.  I 
went  down  to  the  brook,  brought  up  water  in  my  hands,  and 
bathed  his .  mouth  with  it.,  When  this  was  done,  the  animal 
struggled  to  his  feet  and  staggered  away  down  toward  the 
water,  leaving  me  alone.  I  felt  this  total  desertion  keenly,  and 
burying  my  face  in  my  lap,  began  to  cry  like  the  child  I  was. 

I  sat  full  ten  minutes  sobbing  forth  the  desolation  of  my 
heart,  when  the  quick  tramp  of  a  horse  made  me  look  up.  I 


MY     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT.  217 

thought  it  must  be  Jupiter  returning  to  his  duty,  but  instead  of 
him  I  saw  the  young  huntsman  riding  gently  through  the  trees, 
and  now  close  by  me. 

I  started  up,  ashamed  of  my  tears,  and  looked  resolutely 
another  way,  hoping  to  escape  his  notice,  but  he  sprang  off 
his  horse  aijd  was  at  my  side  before  I  could  dash  the  drops 
from  my  burning  cheek. 

"  So  you  have  been  crying,  poor  child  ?"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  patronizing  manliness  that  would  have  amused  an  older  per 
son.  "  No  wonder,  we  were  a  set  of  savages  to  leave  you 
here  alone,  and  with  no  means  of  getting  home." 

"  It  was  savage  !"  I  said,  realizing  for  the  first  time  how 
badly  I  had  been  used  ;  "  but  the  animals  were  just  as  cruel, 
the  stag  and  Jupiter  ;  I  would  not  have  believed  it  of  Jupiter, 
he  used  to  love  me  ;  and  the  very  first  trouble,  off  he  goes 
with  the  rest  1" 

Tears  came  into  my  eyes  again  at  this  thought,  but  I 
quenched  and  crushed  them  between  my  eyelashes,  too  proud 
for  an  exposure  of  my  keen  distress  at  the  desertion  of  Jupiter. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  youth,  smiling,  "  but  I  have  come  back  to 
see  after  you." 

"  Did  you  ?"  I  replied,  with  a  gush  of  gratitude  ;  "  to  see 
after  me,  and  for  nothing  else  ?" 

"  What  else  should  bring  me  back  ?"  he  replied,  looking 
around  as  if  in  search  of  something.  "  So  the  stag  has  gone 
too,  ungrateful  beast.  I  had  a  fancy  to  fasten  some  badge  on 
his  horns  that  he  might  be  safe  hereafter.  He  was  a  noble  old 
fellow  after  all,  no  wonder  he  was  glad  to  get  away  from  this 
spot  I" 

"  But  Jupiter,"  I  said,  with  growing  confidence  in  the  youth, 
"  what  can  have  become  of  my  pony  ?  How  am  I  to  get  home  ? 
Oh,  if  I  only  had  been  good — if  I  had  but  stayed  indoors  as 
they  told  me  !" 

"  As  who  told  you,  lady  bird  ?" 

"  Mr.  Turner.  He  knew  that  I  had  no  business  abroad 
when  the  country  was  full  of  strangers  1" 

10 


218  MT     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT. 

"  And  is  Turner  a  relative  ?  What  control  can  he  possess 
over  you  ?" 

"  He,"  I  replied,  kindling  with  wonder  that  any  one  should 
doubt  Turner's  right  to  control  me.  "Mr.  Turner,  I  belong 
to  him  !  No  one  else  owns  me.  Scarcely  any  one  else  cares 
for  me.  Why,  in  the  wide,  wide  world,  he  is  the  only  person 
who  ever  shall  control  me — dear,  blessed  Mr.  Turner  !" 

"  He  is  a  whole-hearted,  queer  old  soul,  sure  enough,"  was 
the  reply;  "but  certainly  you  are  not  his  child;  I  never  knew 
that  he  was  married." 

"  His  child  I"  I  cried,  breathless  with  the  thought.  "  I— 
I  don't  know — how  should  I  ?  I  his  child — his  own  ?  What 
put  the  idea  into  any  one's  head  ?  It  sounds  so  strange.  Do 
you  mean  that  Mr.  Turner  is  my  father  that  people  ask  after 
so  often  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  mean  nothing — only  is  Mr.  Turner,  as  you  call  him, 
married  ?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  Maria,  I  am  sure,  isn't  married  ;  but  I 
never  asked,  never  thought  of  it." 

He  was  about  to  answer,  but  that  instant  a  low,  timid  neigh 
from  behind  the  spur  of  a  rock  close  by,  made  me  start. 

"  That  is  Jupiter — that  is  Jupiter  !"  I  exclaimed,  and  with 
this  joyful  shout  away  I  bounded,  gathering  up  my  torn  skirt 
in  both  arms,  and  full  of  spirit  once  more. 

Sure  enough  there  stood  my  pony,  sheltered  and  hidden  by 
the  rock,  to  which  the  pretty  creature  had  fled  from  the  crowd 
of  huntsmen.  The  sound  of  my  voice  called  forth  his  neigh,  and 
never  did  a  dumb  creature  express  more  satisfaction  at  the 
presence  of  its  mistress. 

"There  you  see — you  see  it  was  not 'Jupiter's  fault,  the  dear, 
dear  old  rogue.  He  was  so  wise  to  creep  away  and  wait  till 
those  hateful  people  were  all  gone  !"  I  exclaimed  triumphantly, 
laying  my  hot  cheek  against  the  glossy  neck  of  my  horse. 

"  And  did  all  those  people  really  seem  so  hateful  ?"  replied 
'  the  youth,  caressing  Jupiter. 

"  All  1  I  don't  know.     That  lady  was  the  only  one  I  saw 


MY     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT.  219 

distinctly.  The  rest  floated  around  me,  surging  up  and  down 
like  a  red  cloud.  But  I  shall  never  forget  her  !" 

"  And  did  she  fill  you  with  repulsion  ? — was  she  the  hateful 
one  ?" 

"  I  had  seen  her  before  ;  I  knew  her  1" 

"  Indeed — where  ?"  said  the  youth,  in  a  displeased  manner. 

"  I  would  rather  not  say — it  is  unpleasant  to  talk  about,"  I 
answered,  greatly  annoyed. 

"But  it  is  years  since  my — that  is  Lady  Catherine,  has  been 
at  Greenhurst,"  he  answered,  thoughtfully.  "  Never,  I  think, 
since  the  very  sudden  death  of  Lady  Clare.  You  must  have 
mistaken  her  for  some  other  person." 

I  was  greatly  excited.  The  remembrance  of  that  heartless 
voice,  when  I  was  taken  into  Greenhurst,  so  helpless,  stung  me- 

"  No — no,"  I  answered,  "  there  are  some  things  one  never 
forgets,  never  mistakes.  I  have  seen  that  face  in  my  dreams* 
and  hated  it  in  my  thoughts  too  long  for  any  hope  of  that !" 

The  youth  drew  himself  back,  and  ceased  to  caress  my  horse. 
There  was  a  quiet  dignity  in  his  manner  that  made  me  ashamed 
of  my  own  vehemence. 

"  That  lady  is  my  mother  !"  he  said  calmly,  but  with  a  tone 
of  cold  reproof  in  his  voice. 

I  scanned  his  face  with  a  keen  wish  to  disbelieve  him.  But 
now  that  he  was  angry,  there  was  a  resemblance  between  his 
features  and  those  I  did  in  truth  hate. 

"I  am  sorry  for  it,"  I  said,  with  a  nervous  sob — "very* 
very  !" 

"  Sorry  for  what,  that  she  is  my  mother — or  that  you  have 
spoken  disrespectfully  of  her  ?"  he  questioned,  more  gently  than 
before. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  everything  that  has  happened  to-day,  and 
for  my  own  part  in  it  most  of  all.  It  began  in  wicked  disobe 
dience,  and  will  end — oh,  how  will  it  end  ?  What  will  Mr. 
Turner  think  of  me  when  he  knows  this  ?" 

"  Why,  what  great  sin  are  you  crying  for  ?"  he  said,  smiling 
once  more.  "  Certainly  you  are  a  very  free-spoken  little  per- 


220  MY     UNEXPECTED     ESCOET. 

son  ;  but  we  must  not  let  Turner  quite  kill  you  ;  so  don't  be 
afraid  I" 

"  He  kill  me  ?  What,  Turner  ?  No— no,  not  that.  Afraid, 
afraid  ?  Yes,  yes,  I  am  afraid,  for  I  have  done  wrong.  Oh, 
what  will  become  of  me  ?  I  never  was  afraid  before — never, 
never." 

"  But  what  have  you  done  ?"  he  asked,  still  more  kindly. 

"  Mr.  Turner  forbade  me  leaving  the  house.  He  told  me 
how  wrong  it  was  when  Lady  Catherine's  company  might  come 
across  me  at  any  time  ;  he  tried — oh,  so  much — to  keep  me 
happy  in-doors  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use,  I  could  not  endure  it. 
It  was  as  if  I  were  a  bird  beating  my  wings  against  a  cage. 
The  wickedness  was  in  me  all  the  time.  I  thought  it  was 
nonsense  staying  in  the  house,  because  other  people  might  be 
abroad.  Then  it  was  so  tempting,  Mr.  Turner  at  Greenhurst 
— my  bonne  occupied — the  pony  neighing  for  me  to  come  and 
take  him  out.  Really,  after  all,  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  not 
help  it  "— 

George  Irving  laughed  so  gleefully  that  I  could  not  go  on, 
but  began  to  laugh  too. 

"  And  so  you  just  broke  loose  and  ran  away  ?"  he  said, 
patting  Jupiter  again  and  again. 

"  Yes,  I  stole  the  horse,  saddled  him  myself,  and  was  off  like 
a  bird,"  I  replied,  reassured  by  his  laughter,  and  feeling  the 
consciousness  of  my  disobedience  borne  away  on  his  merry 
tones. 

"  And  here  you  are,  full  seven  miles  from  home,  all  alone  but 
for  me,  after  braving  a  pack  of  hounds  in  full  cry,  afraid  of  old 
Turner's  frown,  as  if  he  were  the  Grand  Mogul." 

He  laughed  again,  but  this  light  way  of  naming  my  benefac 
tor  awoke  the  conscience  again  in  my  bosom.  • 

"  It  was  very  wrong — oh,  that  I  had  stayed  at  home  I"  I 
exclaimed,  with  a  fresh  pang. 

"  Well,  well,  don't  fret  about  it  any  more,"  he  said,  with  a 
little  impatient  playfulness  that  made  me  smile  again.  "  Let 
me  lift  you  to  Jupitei's  back — a  pretty  pony  he  is,  my  little 


MY     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT.  221 

lady — and  scamper  home  like  a  good  child.     Tea  chances  to 
one  old  Turner  will  know  nothing  about  it." 

I  allowed  him  to  lift  me  to  the  saddle,  and  felt  myself  blush 
ing  as  he  arranged  my  torn  skirts  with  evident  anxiety  to  give 
them  a  decent  appearance. 

"Now,"  he  said,  springing  on  his  hunter,  "I  must  put  your 
pony  to  his  metal  again.  Unless  I  overtake  Lady  Catherine 
before  she  reaches  home,  my  position  will  very  much  resemble 
yours  !  Come,  let  us  start  as  we  came,  neck  and  neck  !" 

"No,"  said  I,  brightening  with  new  spirit,  "I  came  in  ahead 
—your  hunter  fell  a  little  behind  Jupiter." 

"  But  try  him  now — his  speed  will  be  of  use  to  us  both," 
was  the  laughing  reply.  "  My  mother  will  be  impatient,  and 
her  anger  may  prove  worse  to  bear  than  old  Turner's,  let  me 
tell  you." 

He  put  his  horse  into  a  quick  canter,  and  my  pony  stretched 
himself  vigorously  to  keep  up. 

"But  please  leave  us  to  ourselves  I"  I  pleaded,  breathless, 
with  a  new  dread  ;  "  I 'do  not  wish  to  go  with  you  to  Lady 
Catherine  !" 

"Well — no,  I  am  afraid  her  ladyship  might  prove  formi 
dable,  were  she  to  be  surprised  after  that  fashion  a  second 
time,"  he  replied,  slightly  checking  his  hunter,  "I  only  pro 
pose  to  see  you  and  Jupiter  safe  on  some  avenue  of  the  park, 
where  you  can  scamper  home  in  safety.  I  must  be  indoors  before 
Lady  Catherine,  or  this  escapade  will  be  difficult  to  account  for." 
My  cheek  grew  hot  with  mortified  pride  ;  I  felt  that  he  was 
afraid  of  some  annoyance,  perhaps  ashamed  of  having  returned 
for  me.  Without  a  word  I  drew  in  Jupiter  with  a  suddenness 
that  made  him  leap — wheeled  him  on  one  side,  and  plunged  into 
the  woods,  leaving  the  gentleman,  for  a  moment,  unconscious  of 
my  desertion. 

He  followed  directly,  urging  his  hunter  to  a  run,  and  catling 
after  me  as  he  dashed  through  the  trees.  I  took  no  heed,  and 
gave  back  no  answer  ;  the  blood  was  burning  in  my  temples  ; 
I  felt  my  lips  curve  and  quiver  with  insulted  pride.  No  man  or 


222  MY      UNEXPECTED     ESCORT. 

boy  living  should  speak  to  me,  or  look  at  me,  who  was  ashamed 
to  do  it  before  all  the  world.  Then  my  heart  began  to  ache 
even  in  its  wrath.  I  had  thought  so  well  of  him,  his  interest  in 
my  loneliness,  his  brave  fight  with  the  hounds — why,  why  did 
he  exert  all  this  tender  strength  in  my  behalf  to  wound  me  so 
cruelly  afterward  ?  He  was  by  my  side,  but  I  kept  my  head 
averted  with  girlish  willfulness,  expressing  my  displeasure  rudely 
like  any  other  spoiled  child. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  why  you  ran  away  ?"  he  said,  attempt 
ing  to  rest  one  hand  upon  my  saddle  as  he  cantered  by  me. 

Oh,  how  I  longed  to  lift  my  pretty  riding-whip  and  strike  him 
hard  across  the  face  !  I  think  the  act  would  have  appeased  me. 

"  Say,  child,  will  you  explain  this  bit  of  very  bad  manners  ?" 
he  urged,  evidently  determined  to  provoke  me  to  some  reply. 

"  Child  1"  This  was  too  much  ;  the  whole  taunt  stung  mo 
into  speech.  I  checked  Jupiter,  and  felt  the  fire  leap  into  my 
face  as  it  was  turned  toward  my  persecutor.  He  looked  grave 
— offended. 

"  Because  I  wish  to  ride  alone  :  I'm  not  used  to  company, 
and  don't  want  any,  especially  of  persons  who  are  afraid  or 
ashamed  of  being  kind  to  me,"  I  said,  half  crying  amid  my  fiery 
vexation. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  and  am  not  ashamed,"  he  answered  gravely  ; 
"  yet  you  cannot  understand,  child,  for  with  all  that  fierce  temper 
you  are  but  a  child  !" 

"  I  am  more  than  twelve — thirteen,  fifteen,  for  what  any 
one  knows,"  I  said,  half  blinding  myself  with  tears.  "  I  under 
stand  what  it  is  just  as  well  as  you  can  tell  me  ;  you  are  afraid 
of  that  haughty  person,  your  mother.  You  are  not  quite  satis 
fied  with  having  braved  the  hounds  before  a  whole  crowd  of 
people,  for  a  little  girl  who  has  only  Mr.  Turner  to  care  for  her. 
Oh,  yes,  I  know — I  could  feel  that  without  knowing  !" 

"  Strange  child,"  he  said,  with  a  grave  smile.  "  Who  taught 
you  all  this,  so  young,  and  without  the  faith  becoming  this  girl 
ish  beauty  ?" 

The  anger  was  burning  out  in  my  heart.     There  was  some- 


MT     UNEXPECTED     ESCORT.  223 

thing  manly  and  reproving  in  his  calm  seriousness  that  subdued 
me.  He  reached  out  his  hand,  while  the  smile  brightened  all 
over  his  face. 

"  Come,  let  us  be  friends — you  cannot  keep  angry  with  me, 
because  I  have  not  deserved  it  1" 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  He  stooped  in  his  saddle  as  if  to  press 
his  lips  upon  it,  but  checked  the  impulse  ;  and,  holding  it  tight 
an  instant,  let  it  drop,  saying  very  earnestly, 

"  I  would  not  have  wounded  you  for  the  world." 

That  instant  the  undergrowth  close  by  us  was  sharply  parted, 
and  Turner  broke  into  the  path  on  which  we  had  paused. 

I  felt  the  blood  leave  my  face,  and,  for  the  first  time,  trembled 
at  the  sight  of  my  benefactor.  The  old  man  looked  sternly 
across  me  to  George  Irving,  whom  he  neither  saluted  nor 
addressed  ;  but,  taking  Jupiter  by  the  bit,  said  in  a  deep, 
husky  voice,  that  made  the  heart  die  in  my  bosom, 

"  Zana,  come  away  1" 

I  dropped  the  bridle,  and  covering  my  face  with  both  gaunt- 
leted  hands,  cowered  down  upon  my  saddle  with  a  keen  sense 
of  the  humiliation  which  he  was  witnessing. 

I  listened  breathlessly. 

"  Turner,  if  you  will  let  the  pony  move  on,  I  will  dismount 
and  lead  my  hunter  while  we  have  a  little  talk." 

It  was  Irving's  voice,  and  I  listened  breathlessly  for  the 
reply.  Some  seconds  passed  before  it  came  ;  Turner's  throat 
seemed  husky. 

"To-morrow*  Mr.  George,  I'll  be  at  the  Hurst,"  he  said, 
"  and  then  as  much  talk  as  pleases  you  ;  but  now  I  must  take 
this  child  home." 

"  But  she  seems  terrified  ;  you  will  not — surely  you  will  not  be 
harsh  with  her  ?" 

"  Harsh  with  her  I  with  Zana — was  I  ever  harsh  to  you  in 
my  life,  little  one  ?"  urged  the  old  man,  and  the  husky  voice 
was  broken  up  with  tenderness. 

I  uncovered  my  face,  and  holding  out  both  hands  to  the  old 
man,  turned  toward  young  Irving. 


224  THE     UNWELCOME    VISITOR. 

"  You  know  how  wrong  I  have  been — see  how  forgiving,  how 
kind,  how  good  he,  is  !" 

The  old  man's  face  began  to  work.  The  fine  wrinkles  quiv 
ered  over  his  cheek  and  around  his  mouth,  a  sure  sign  of  emo 
tion  in  him.  He  lifted  my  two  gloved  hands  and  kissed  them 
fondly.  All  at  once  he  dropped  my  hands  and  went  up  to 
Irving. 

"  Mr.  Irving — my  dear  Master  George,  forget  that  you  have 
seen  her — forget  all  about  it — promise  me  that  you  will." 

"  That  would  be  difficult/'  answered  the  youth,  glancing  at 
me  with  a  smile. 

"  It  would  indeed,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  fondly  in  my 
face.  "  God  help  us — this  is  a  bad  business  !  At  any  rate, 
leave  us  now  !" 

The  young  man  turned,  bent  his  head,  and  wheeling  his  hunter, 
disappeared.  < 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE      UNWELCOME      VISITOR. 

I  SPENT  a  wakeful  night,  disturbed  by  a  host  of  new  feelings 
and  strange  thoughts,  that  crowded  upon  me  like  a  rush  of 
waters.  All  night  long  a  review  of  the  day's  hunt  went  for 
ward  in  my  fancy.  The  brilliant  dresses  and  those  strange  faces 
circled  me  with  a  sort  of  fascination.  Sometimes  they  smiled 
warningly,  then  they  gibed  at  my  torn  garments — and  foremost 
of  all  was  the  proud  face  of  Lady  Catherine.  Oh,  how  I  began 
to  hate  that  woman  !  It  was  the  bitter  antagonism  of  a  life 
time  striking  root  deep  in  my  heart. 

Toward  morning  I  thought  of  Turner,  with  a  pang  that  was 
punishment  enough  for  the  sin  of  my  first  disobedience.  I  knew 


THE     UNWELCOME     VISITOR.  225 

that  he  was  not  only  grieved  but  plunged  into  difficulties  on 
my  account — that  all  the  evils  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  guard 
against  were  already  brought  on  by  my  obstinate  self-indul 
gence. 

This  reflection  made  me  heart-sick,  and  I  turned  away  from 
the  soft  daylight  as  it  broke  through  my  room,  ashamed  to 
receive  it  on  my  ungrateful  face.  With  faltering  steps  I  went 
down  stairs  and  seated  myself  in  the  little  breakfast-room. 
Turner  was  in  the  garden,  but  though  I  had  not  the  cowardice 
to  shrink  from  encountering  him  in  the  house,  I  could  not  sum 
mon  courage  to  seek  him. 

He  saw  me  at  the  window  looking  sad  enough,  I  dare  say, 
and,  coming  up,  gave  me  a  handful  of  tiny  white  roses,  which 
were  the  glory  of  a  plant  that  he  had  never  allowed  to  be 
touched  before.  I  felt  the  tears  rushing  to  my  eyes,  and  creep 
ing  toward  the  old  man,  murmured  in  the  deepest  humility, 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Turner,  why  don't  you  scold  me  ?  Why  not 
punish  my  wickedness  ?" 

"  Because,"  he  answered,  with  a  miserable  shake  of  the  head, 
"  because  you  will  be  punished  enough,  poor  thing,  before  night, 
or  I  am  mistaken." 

"  I  hope  so — I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  be  soundly 
reprimanded.  You  break  my  heart  with  all  this  kindness." 

"  Here  comes  one,"  said  Turner,  growing  red  in  the  face, 
"  who  will  not  sin  in  that  way,  I  can  answer." 

I  followed  his  look,  and  saw  Lady  Catherine  Irving  coming 
through  the  garden,  walking  rather  quickly,  and  brushing  down 
the  autumn  flowers  with  the  sweep  of  her  garments.  On  seeing 
us  she  resumed  the  stateliness  usual  to  her  movements,  and 
stooped  now  and  then  to  gather  the  snowy  flowers  of  a  chry 
santhemum,  which  she  seemed  to  examine  curiously  while 
approaching  the  house. 

"  Ah,  Turner,"  she  said,  drawing  toward  the  window,  "  what 
a  pretty  little  nest  you  have  here  ;  and  what  flowers  !  I  have 
never  seen  any  thing  to  compare  with  these,"  and  forming  a 
ring  with  the  thumb  and  fore  finger  of  her  left  hand,  she  drew 

10* 


226  THE     UNWELCOME     VISITOR. 

the  white  tufts  softly  through  it,  as  Nero  might  have  trifled  on 
the  day  of  his  mother's  murder.  "  Why,  you  live  here  with 
your  little  family  quite  like  fairies.  No  wonder  you  are  so  often 
absent  from  Greenhurst." 

"  I  hope  that  none  of  the  duties  my  lord  left  for  me  to  per 
form  are  neglected,  madam,"  answered  Turner,  with  a  degree 
of  dignity  that  charmed  me. 

"No,  no — I  do  not  complain — far  from  it,  good  Turner — 
that  I  am  here  is  a  proof  of  it.  Your  child — I  hope  she  was 
neither  frightened  nor  hurt  by  the  hounds." 

"  No,  madam,"  I  answered,  leaning  through  the  sash.  "  It 
was  rather  lonesome  being  left  by  myself  with  the  poor  stag  ; 
but  the  young  gentleman  "- 

"  Hush  !"  said  Turner,  sternly,  glancing  toward  Lady  Cathe 
rine,  whose  cheek  flushed  with  sudden  color. 

I  saw  the  color  and  the  glitter  in  her  eyes,  more  expressive 
still,  and  even  Turner's  caution  could  not  control  me.  I  was 
determined  to  let  her  know  that  her  son  had  returned  to  pro 
tect  me.  The  remembrance  that  he  had  seemed  to  fear  her 
knowledge  of  it  only  urged  me  on. 

"  The  young  gentleman  came  back  and  put  Jupiter  and  me 
into  the  right  path  :  but  for  that  I  don't  know  what  would 
have  become  of  us." 

"  Your  daughter'  seems  a  bright,  and — forgive  me,  good  Tur 
ner — rather  forward  little  thing,"'  said  the  lady,  lifting  the 
flowers  softly  to  her  lips,  as  she  gave  him  a  searching  glance. 
"  I  am  very  glad  though,  that  she  is  unharmed." 

Turner  looked  at  her,  and  then  with  a  restless  movement  at 
me.  The  color  came  up  among  his  wrinkles,  and  his  features 
began  to  work  as  if  some  unfinished  resolution  had  set  them  in 
motion.  Before  he  could  speak,  however,  Lady  Catherine's 
voice  broke  in  again, 

"And  your  wife — my  good  Turner — really  I  must  have  a 
sight  of  her  and  this  pretty  home  of  yours — quite  a  bijou  in  the 
grounds,  truly  !" 

Placing  a  richly  enamelled  glass  to  her  eyes,  the  lady  took  a 


THE     UNWELCOME     VISITOR.  227 

• 

quiet  survey  of  the  building  before  Turner  could  find  words  to 
answer  her. 

Never  had  I  seen  the  old  man  so  agitated.  The  color  came 
and  went  beneath  his  wrinkles  ;  his  thin  lips  grew  pale  and  pur 
ple  by  turns  ;  his  state  of  irresolution  was  painful. 

"I  will  step  in  and  see  your  wife  1"  said  Lady  Catherine, 
dropping  her  glass  to  the  full  length  of  its  Venetian  chain,  and 
looking  around  for  the  door. 

Now  Turner  became  calm ;  every  muscle  and  nerve  settled 
down.  He  stood  more  firmly  on  the  ground,  and  looking  his 
tormentor  steadily  in  the  face,  answered, 

"  Some  one  must  have  been  joking  at  my  expense,  my  lady. 
[  have  no  wife  1" 

"  No  wife  1"  exclaimed  Lady  Catherine,  with  a  start  that 
even  I  could  see  was  premeditated.  "No  wife — and  this 
child  ?" 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Turner,  "this  is  not  my  child. 
Yourself  saw  me  when  I  took  her  up  from  your  own  door-stone, 
or  rather  the  door-stone  of  Greenhurst,  eight  years  ago." 

A  cold  smile  curled  Lady  Catherine's  lip.  She  lifted  her 
glass  again  and  eyed  me  through  it.  "I  remember  the  circum 
stance,"  she  said,  and  the  hateful  smile  deepened — "  I  remem 
ber,  too,  that  a  child  disappeared  very  mysteriously  but  a  short 
time  before  from  this  nest — two  children  in  fact — if  my  people 
told  me  aright." 

"They  did  tell  you  aright,  lady,"  said  Turner,  sternly — but 
she  interrupted  him. 

"  One,  the  elder,  went  out  to  service,  I  fancy.  This  one 
dropped,  miraculously,  on  my  door-step.  Well,  well,  my  goocl 
Turner,  no  one  thinks  of  quarrelling  with  this  fanciful  way  of 
adopting  your  own  children  ;  but  her  mother — unless  you  are 
really  married  to  this  woman,  she  must  go.  I  cannot  answer 
it  to  society — to  Lord  Clare,  the  most  particular  man  on 
earth — if  she  is  allowed  to  remain  on  the  estate  a  day  longer." 

"  Madam,"  said  Turner,  "  I  have  said  but  the  truth  ;  Zana, 


228  THE     UNWELCOME       VISITOR. 

* 

there,  is  no  more  my  daughter  than  her  Spanish  bonne  is  my 
wife  !" 

"  Who  is  her — her  father  ? — who  is  her  mother  then  ?"  asked 
Lady  Catherine. 

I  remarked  that  her  voice  faltered  in  putting  this  question, 
and  she  could  not  look  in  Turner's  face. 

Turner  regarded  her  firmly,  and  a  faint  smile  stirred  his  lip. 
Lady  Catherine  saw  it,  and  once  more  there  arose  a  shade  of 
color  in  her  cheek. 

"  Lady,  I  can  answer  these  questions  no  more  than  yourself, 
for  you  were  present  wheu  I  found  the  poor  child." 

"  And  had  you  never  seen  her  before  ?"  questioned  the  lady. 

Turner  hesitated  and  seemed  to  reflect ;  but  at  last  he  answered 
firmly  enough. 

"It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  yes  or  no." 

The  lady  played  with  her  flowers  awhile,  and  then  spoke 
again  very  softly,  and  with  a  degree  of  persuasion  in  her  voice. 

"  Well,  Turner,  we  will  not  press  you  too  hard.  I  cannot 
forget  that  you  were  my  brother's  favorite  and  oldest  servant, 
and  now  his  agent — that  he  trusted  you." 

"  He  did  indeed,"  cried  the  old  man,  casting  a  glance  full  of 
affection  at  me. 

"  I  am  sure  you  would  do  nothing  that  could  cast  reproach 
on  him,"  continued  the  lady,  placing  a  strong  emphasis  on  the 
pronoun. 

"  Not  for  the  universe,"  ejaculated  Turner. 

"  Yet,  while  you  live  thus — while  there  is  a  doubt  left  regard 
ing  this  child,  cannot  you  see  that  even  my  noble  brother  may 
be  condemned  as — as  sanctioning — you  understand — this  species 
of  immorality — on  his  estates  ?" 

"  But  how  am  I  to  prevent  this  ?"  exclaimed  Turner,  after  a 
moment  of  perplexed  thought,  during  which  he  gazed  on  Lady 
Catherine,  as  if  searching  for  some  meaning  in  her  words  which 
they  did  not  wholly  convey. 

"  Let  me  tell  you — for  I  have  been  thinking  on  this  subject  a 


THE     UNWELCOME     VISITOR.  229 

good  deal — she  is  a  fine-spirited  girl  that,  a  little  wild  and  gip> 
syish  ;  but  many  of  our  guests  were  struck  with  her." 

"  No  wonder  1"  exclaimed  Turner,  with  his  face  all  in  a  glow. 
"Who  could  help  it?" 

"  So  they  inquired  a  good  deal  about  her,  and  when  it  came 
out  that  she  lived  here  under  your  protection,  of  course,  it  led 
to  questions  and  old  things — nonsensical  gossip  about  by-gone 
times  that  quite  made  me  nervous — you  understand,  good  Tur 
ner.  So  I  told  them  what  I  am  sure  is  the  truth  even  yet — 
that  the  Spanish  woman  here  is  her  mother,  that  she  is  your 
own  child — that  you  are  married." 

Turner  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  it  will  be  so,"  persisted  the  lady,  "  or  as  I  said  before, 
both  woman  and  child  must  leave  the  estate." 

"  You  cannot  be  in  earnest !"  said  Turner. 

"  Does  it  seem  like  earnest  when  you  find  me  here  at  this  hour 
of  the  morning  ?"  replied  the  lady. 

"  But  it  was  Lord  Clare's  desire — his  command — that  I  hold 
authority  in  this  house  until  his  return,"  persisted  Turner. 

"  He  mentions  nothing  of  this  in  his  letters  to  us.  Besides, 
you  cannot  mean  to  say  that  he  has  made  such  provisions  for 
these  females." 

"  No,  Zana  was  not  here  at  the  time  ;  but  I  know,  I  am 
sure  " 

"  Be  sure  of  nothing  !"  exclaimed  Lady  Catherine,  with  more 
energy  than  she  had  yet  exhibited — "  be  sure  of  nothing,  if  you 
love  your  master,  but  that  you  can  serve  him  best  by  silencing 
this  subject  of  public  gossip  at  once.  Marry  the  woman  with 
whom  you  have  been  so  long  domesticated  1" 

"Marry!"  exclaimed  Turner,  with  a  terrible  twist  of  the 
face,  as  if  the  word  had  not  really  come  home  to  his  heart  till 
then,  "marry  at  this  time  of  life,  and  a  Spanish  woman. 
Wouldn't  it  do  as  well,  my  lady,  if  they  set  me  in  the  pillory 
for  an  hour  or  so  1" 

"  It  might  not  do  so  well  for  the  girl,  perhaps/*  was  the  stern 
reply. 


230  TURNER'S   STRUGGLE 

"  For  her  sake  I  would  do  anything  1" 

"It  is  a  great  pity  to  keep  the  poor  thing  caged  up  here  : 
and  what  is  to  become  of  her  in  the  end  ?  As  your  daughter 
she  can  come  up  to  the  house  and  see  something  of  society. 

"  What,  a  servant,  madam  ?"  cried  Turner,  reddening  fiercely. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  ;  you  are  no  common  man,  Turner  ; 
and  certainly  that  child,  with  her  wild,  arch,  nay,  haughty 
style,  might  pass  anywhere.  She  shall  come  to  the  Hurst  and 
obtain  some  accomplishments.  I  should  fancy  her  greatly 
about  the  house.  She  might  pick  up  a  little  education  from 
my  son's  tutor,  who  will  be  down  in  a  week  or  two,  and  become 
quite  an  ornament  to  the  establishment." 

"  She  would  be  an  ornament  to  any  place,"  said  Turner, 
proudly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  smiling  upon  me,  "  any  man  might 
be  proud  of  her  for  a  daughter.  I  dare  say  we  shall  be  excel 
lent  friends  soon — meantime  think  of  what  I  have  said.  This 
is  a  charming  place,  it  would  be  a  pity  for  the  child  to  leave  it. 
To-morrow  let  me  have  your  answer." 

She  moved  proudly  away,  holding  up  her  dress,  and  winding 
carefully  through  the  flower  beds,  as  if  her  errand  had  been  the 
commonest  thing  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

TURNER'S  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  MARRIAGE. 

I  COULD  not  realize  the  importance  of  Lady  Catherine's  visit 
all  at  once.  It  had  been  carried  on  so  quietly,  so  like  the  ordi 
nary  common-place  of  her  patrician  life,  that  its  meaning  seemed 
lost  in  sound.  I  could  even  amuse  myself  with  the  excitement 
of  poor  Turner,  who,  folding  his  arms  behind  him,  went  furiously 


AGAINST     MARRIAGE.  231 

pacing  up  and  down  the  garden,  treading  everything  down  in 
his  path,  and  wading  knee  deep  through  the  tall  autumn  blos 
soms,  jerking  his  feet  among  them  now  and  then,  as  if  it  were 
a  relief  to  destroy  anything  that  came  in  his  way. 

I  had  never  seen  the  old  man  in  this  mood* before,  and  almost 
thought  him  mad,  for  he  muttered  to  himself,  and  seemed  quite 
unconscious  that  I  was  a  witness  to  the  scene. 

At  last  he  came  by  the  window  with  a  long  pendant  of  honey 
suckle  trailing  from  his  boot. 

"  Mr.  Turner,"  I  said,  laughing  softly  as  he  came  up. 

"Oh,  you  can  be  amused — easily  amused — children  always 
are  !"  he  exclaimed  savagely.  "  Now  can  you  see  what  mis 
chief  that  ride  has  done  ?  Sit  and  laugh,  truly — but  what  am 
I  to  do  ?» 

"  Lady  Catherine  says  you  must  get  married,"  I  answered, 
mischievously,  for  rage,  instead  of  appalh'ng,  was  invariably  sure 
to  amu.se  me. 

"  Married  !"  almost  shrieked  the  old  man,  "  and  so  you  have 
brought  me  to  that,  you — you  I" 

The  contortions  of  his  face  were  too  droll.  I  could  not  keep 
from  laughing  again. 

"  Zana,"  said  the  old  man,  and  tears  absolutely  stood  in  his 
eyes,  "  I  was  good  to  you — I  loved  you — what  right  had  you  to 
bring  this  misfortune  on  me  ?  I  knew  that  evil  would  come  of 
it  when  I  found  Jupiter's  stall  empty  ;  but  marriage,  oh,  I  did 
not  dream  of  that  calamity." 

"And  is  marriage  always  a  calamity  ?"  I  inquired,  sobered  by 
his  evident  feeling. 

"  Yes  !" 

He  hissed  forth  the  monosyllable  as  if  it  had  been  a  drop  of 
poison  that  burned  his  tongue. 

"  And  you  dislike  it  very  much  ?" 

"  Dislike  it  1" 

There  is  no  describing  the  bitterness  that  he  crowded  into 
these  two  words. 

"  Then  do   not — for  my  sake   do  *not   be  married.     Why 


232 


should  you  ?  I'm  sure  it  will  do  me  no  good.  I  don't  care  in 
the  least  for  it  !" 

His  sharp  eyes  brightened  for  an  instant,  and  he  looked  at 
me  eagerly,  like  a  convict  on  whom  sudden  hopes  of  escape 
had  dawned. 

"  Then  you  wouldn't  much  mind  leaving  this  place,  Zana  ?" 
he  said. 

My  heart  sunk,  but  I  strove  to  answer  cheerfully. 

"  No,  no,  I — I  don't  think  it  would  seem  so  hard  after  a 
little  !" 

"  And  Jupiter,  and  Cora?" 

I  burst  into  tears. 

"  There  now,  that  is  it — I'm  answered — I  was  sure  it  would 
break  her  little  heart,"  cried  the  old  man,  desperately — "  I'll  do 
it.  I'll  bind  myself,  hand  and  foot — I'll  make  an  eternal  old 
fool  of  myself.  I'll — I'll.  It's  no  use  struggling,  I'm  sold,  lost 
— tied  up — married  !" 

He  uttered  the  last  word  ferociously,  casting  it  down  as  if  it 
had  been  a  rock. 

"  Not  for  me,  Turner — not  for  me,"  I  said,  losing  all  sense  of 
the  ludicrous  in  his  genuine  repugnance  to  the  measure  Lady 
Catherine  had  proposed.  "  I  do  not  understand  this — what  on 
earth  is  the  reason  they  cannot  let  us  live  in  peace  ?" 

"  Because  you  must  be  cutting  loose'  from  my  authority — 
centering  about  «like  a  little  Nimrod  in  long  skirts — fighting 
hounds — getting  acquainted  with  young  men  whom  you  ought 
to  hate — to  hate,  I  say  Miss  Zana  !  Because  you  are  a  little 
fool,  and  I  am  an  old  ana.  Because,  because — but  it's  no  use 
talking." 

I  began  to  see  my  disobedience  in  its  true  light.  Certainly 
it  was  impossible  to  comprehend  why  it  had  led  to  the  necessity 
which  my  old  benefactor  so  much  deplored,  but  I  felt  to  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  that  this  evil,  whatever  it  was,  ^ad  been 
brought  on  by  myself. 

"  Mr.  Turner,"  I  said^  "  if  I  stay  in-doors  a  month,  nay,  a 
whole  year,  will  it  do  any  good  ?" 


AGAINST     MAKBIAGE.  233 

«  No— not  the  least  !" 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  Indeed,  indeed,  Turner,  I  am  very 
sorry,"  I  persisted  ;  "but  let  us  go  away  ;  it  will  be  far  better 
to  leave  Cora  and  Jupiter,  the  house  and  everything." 

Why  did  I  lose  my  voice  so  suddenly  ?  Why  did  the 
thought  that  George  Irving  was  at  Greenhurst  depress  my 
heart  and  speech  ?  I  felt  myself  growing  pale,  and  looking 
despairingly  around  the  lovely  garden,  for  the  first  time  realiz 
ing  how  dear  every  flower  had  become. 

Turner  looked  at  me  wistfully,  and  at  length  went  away.  I 
saw  him  an  hour  after  wandering  to  and  fro  hi  the  wilderness. 
I  did  not  leave  the  window,  though  breakfast  had  been  long 
waiting.  The  whole  conversation  had  bewildered  me.  Why 
should  Turner  dread  this  marriage  so  much — was  it  not  right  ? 
It  seemed  to  me  a  very  easy  thing  when  so  much  depended  on 
it.  I  had  never  thought  seriously  of  marriage  in  my  whole  life, 
and  its  very  mysteriousness  made  me  look  upon  Turner  as  the 
victim  of  some  hidden  evil.  I  was  resolved  that  he  should  not 
be  sacrificed.  What  was  my  bonne,  friends,  Jupiter,  to  the 
comfort  of  an  old  friend  like  him  ? 

I  went  forth  into  the  wilderness,  and  found  him  sitting  at  the 
root  of  a  huge  chestnut,  with  his  clasped  hands  drooping  idly 
down  between  his  knees,  and  gazing  steadfastly  on  the  earth. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  reaching  forth  his  hand,  "sit  down  here, 
and  tell  me  all  about  it.  What  have  I  been  saying  ?  Have 
I  been  very  cross,  darling  ?" 

His  kindness  went  to  my  heart.  I  sat  down  upon  a  curved 
root  of  the  tree,  and  leaned  softly  against  him. 

"  Yes,  a  little  cross,  but  not  half  so  much  as  I  deserved/'  I 
said,  meekly.  "  But  tell  me  now,  Mr.  Turner,  what  is  this 
marriage,  what  is  there  so  dreadful  about  it  ?" 

"  Nothing,  child — nothing,  he  answered,  with  forced  cheer 
fulness.  "  I  dare  say^  it  is  very  pleasant — very  pleasant  indeed 
to  some  people.  I  know  of  persons  who  are  very  fond  of  wed 
dings,  quite  charmed  with  them  ;  but  for  my  part  a  funeral 


234  TURNER'S    STRUGGLE 

seems  more  the  thing — there  is  some  certainty  about  that.  It 
settles  a  man,  leaves  him  alone,  provides  for  him." 

"  I  never  saw  a  wedding,"  said  I,  thoughtfully,  "  and  but 
one  funeral.  That  was  very  sad,  Mr.  Turner  ;  if  a  wedding  is 
like  that,  don't  be  married — it  is  dreadful !  Are  weddings  like 
that  funeral  ever  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  weddings  a  great  deal  more  solemn,"  he 
answered,  still  gazing  on  the  ground.  "  One  that  seemed  but 
the  mockery  of  a  funeral,  and  ended  in  one  !" 

"  What  one  was  that  ?"  I  questioned,  while  a  cold  chill  crept 
mysteriously  through  my  veins. 

"  It  was  Lord  Clare's  wedding  that  I  was  thinking  of,"  he 
answered,  looking  up,  "  and  that  happened  three  days  before  I 
found  you  on  his  door-step." 

I  looked  fearfully  around.  It  seemed  as  if  a  funeral  train 
were  creeping  through  the  woods — the  ghost  of  some  pro 
cession  that  lived  in  my  memory,  yet  would  not  give  itself 
forth. 

"  And  do  they  wish  your  wedding  to  be  like  that  ?"  I  whis 
pered,  creeping  close  to  him. 

"  Like  that  !"  said  Turner,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  "  God  forbid  ! 
Mine,  if  it  must  be,  is  but  the  expiation  of  that  !" 

"  And  would  Lord  Clare  desire  it  ? — would  he  insist  like 
Lady  Catherine  ?"  I  questioned.  "  Would  he  turn  me  out  of 
doors  unless  you  married  Maria,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  He  turn  you  out  of  doors — he,  child  ?  I  only  wish  we  had 
some  way  of  reaching  him  1" 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  In  Africa,  the  last  we  heard,  searching  for  what  he  will 
never  find." 

"  And  what  is  that,  Mr.  Turner  ?" 

"  Peace,  child,  peace — a  thing  that  he  will  never  know  again 
on  this  side  the  grave  1" 

"  Is  he  a  bad  man  then  ?"  I  persisted,  strangely  .enthralled 
by  the  subject. 


AGAINST     MARKIAGE.  235 

"  Millions  of  worse  men  will  live  and  revel  after  he  has  pined 
himself  into  the  grave. 

"  Let  us  leave  this  place  and  seek  for  him,"  I  said,  filled  with 
a  sympathy  so  deep  that  my  very  heart  trembled.  •  "  If  he  is 
unhappy,  you  and  I  may  do  him  some  good." 

"Oh,  child,  if  you  could  but  remember.  If  I  had  but  some 
little  proof,"  he  answered,  gazing  at  me  impressively. 

"  Proof  of  what,  Turner  ? — what  can  you  wish  to  prove  ?" 

"  That  iu  which  nothing  but  God  can  help  me  1"  was  the 
desponding  reply. 

"  It  seemed  to  me,"  said  I,  pressing  each  hand  upon  my 
temples,  for  they  were  hot  with  unavailing  thought — "  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  the  thing  that  you  wish  to  know  was  beat 
ing  in  my  brain  all  the  time.  Something  there  is,  blank  and 
dark  in  my  memory — how  shall  I  bring  it  forth  that  you  may 
read  it  ?" 

"  Wait  God's  own  time,  my  child,"  answered  the  old  man, 
gently  taking  the  hands  from  my  temples,  "sooner  or  later 
that  which  we  wish  to  learn  will  be  made  clear.  Come  now, 
let  us  go  home  !" 

"  But  they  will  not  let  us  stay  there,  and  I  am  ready  to  go," 
I  remonstrated. 

"  Yes,  they  will  let  us  stay  now,"  he  answered,  with  a  grim 
smile. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  shall  marry  the  Spanish  woman  to-morrow." 

There  was  a  lingering  bitterness  in  the  emphasis  placed  on 
the  words  Spanish  woman,  that  lengthened  the  phrase  for  a 
moment.  It  was  the  last  I  ever  witnessed.  Turner  did  not 
sacrifice  himself  by  halves. 

"Zana,"  said  the  noble  old  man,  as  we  moved  slowly  toward 
the  house,  "  you  must  not  tell  Maria  of  Lady  Catherine's  visit, 
or  of— of  my  shameful  passion  after  it.  Women  have  strange 
ideas  about  love,  and  so  on,  and  she  might  take  it  into  her 
head  to  ask  awkward  questions  if  she  knew  all.  Do  you  under 
stand  ?" 


236  THE     RELUCTANT     PROPOSAL. 

Yes,  I  understood'  perfectly.  He  was  anxious  to  save  the 
poor  Spanish  woman  from  a  knowledge  of  his  repugnance  to 
the  marriage.  I  promised  the  secrecy  that  he  desired. 

We  entered  the  breakfast-room  together.  Maria  had  been 
waiting  for  us  more  than  an  hour,  but  she  ran  cheerfully  for 
the  coffee  urn  and  muffins  without  a  word  of  comment.  . 

I  saw  Turner  look  at  her  with  some  appearance  of  interest 
once  or  twice  during  the  meal.  The  queer  old  philosopher 
was  evidently  reconciling  himself  to  the  fate  that  an  hour  ago 
had  half  driven  him  mad.  Maria  certainly  looked  younger 
and  more  interesting  than  usual  that  morning.  Unlike  the 
Spanish  women  in  general,  she  wore  her  years  becomingly, 
the  moist  climate  of  England,  and  the  quiet  of  her  life  con 
spiring  to  keep  from  her  the  haggard  look  of  old  age 
that  marks  even  mid-life  in  her  native  land.  The  picturesque 
costume  which  she  had  never  been  induced  to  change,  was  also 
peculiarly  becoming  ;  the  dark  blue  skirt  and  bodice  of  black 
cloth  ;  the  long  braids  of  her  hair,  slighly  tinged  with  snow, 
but  gay  with  knots  of  scarlet  ribbon  ;  the  healthy  stoutness 
of  her  person  united  in  rendering  my  faithful  bonne  anything 
but  a  repulsive  person.  I  began  to  have  less  compassion  for 
Turner,  and  with  the  mobility  of  youth  amused  myself  with 
fancying  Maria's  astonishment  when  she  should  learn  what  the 
fates  had  in  store  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  RELUC'TANT  PROPOSAL. 

,  child,  will  you  see  to  the  chrysanthemums  that  were 
trailing  across  the  walk  this  morning  ? — they  will  be  trodden 
down." 


THE  RELUCTANT  PROPOSAL.      237 

I  looked  in  Turner's  face  as  he  said  this,  and  felt  a  mischie 
vous  smile  quivering  on  my  lips.  The  dear  old  fellow  grew  red 
as  a  winter  apple,  then  a  grave,  reproving  look  followed,  and  I 
was  glad  to  escape  into  the  garden. 

It  was  very  wrong,  I  admit,  but  a  curiosity  to  see  how  Tur 
ner  would  make  love  overpowered  all  sense  of  honor.  I  confess 
to  lingering  in  sight  of  the  windows,  cautiously  keeping  myself 
out  of  view  all  the  time.  Turner  and  Maria  still  kept  their 
seats  by  the  breakfast-table.  His  face  was  toward  me,  but  I 
could  discern  that  one  elbow  was  pressed  on  the  table,  and  he 
sat  sideways,  looking  hard  at  the  opposite  wall  while  speaking. 
But  Maria  was  in  full  view,  and  a  very  picturesque  portrait  she 
made  framed  in  by  the  open  window.  I  watched  her  face  as  it 
changed  from  perplexity  to  wonder,  from  wonder  to  a  strange 
sort  of  bashful  pleasure.  Her  cheeks  grew  red;  her  great,  black, 
Spanish  eyes  lighted  up  like  those  of  a  deer  ;  yet  she  seemed 
ashamed  of  the  feelings  speaking  there,  as  if  they  were  unbe 
coming  to  her  years. 

All  at  once  she  arose,  and,  coming  round  the  table,  leaned 
against  the  window-frame.  This  movement  brought  me  within 
hearing,  but  I  could  not  escape  without  being  discovered  ;  so 
after  taking  one  wrong  step,  I  was  forced  into  another  still  more 
dishonorable.  At  first  Maria  spoke  in  her  usual  broken  Eng 
lish,  which  I  cannot  attempt  to  give,  as  its  peculiarity  lay  rather 
in  the  tone  than  the  words. 

"This  is  very  strange,  Mr.  Turner.  Why  do  you  speak  of 
this  thing  now  after  so  many  years  ?  What  has  happened  that 
you  talk  to  me  of  marriage  ?  You  say  it  is  better  for  the  child 
—better  for  us  all.  But  why  ?'! 

"  I  will  make  a  good  husband  to  you — at  any  rate  do  the 
best  I  can  !"  pleaded  poor  Turner,  sadly  out  of  place  in  his 
love-making. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  fallen  in  love  with  me  all  of  a  sudden," 
said  my  bonne,  half  bitterly,  half  in  a  questioning  manner,  as 
if  she  faintly  hoped  he  would  assent  to  the  idea. 

"I — what,  I  fall  in  love  1"  cried  Turner,  and  his  face  writhed 


238  THE     RELUCTANT     PROPOSAL. 

into  a  miserable  smile  ;  "it  isn't  in  me  to  make  a  fool  of  my 
self  at  this  age.  I  hope  you  have  a  better  opinion  of  me  than 
that." 

She  answered  rapidly,  and  partly  in  Spanish.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  womanly  bitterness  in  her  voice,  but  I  could  only 
gather  a  few  hasty  ejaculations. 

"  You  joke,  Mr.  Turner — you  mock — you  have  found  a  way 
of  amusing  yourself  with  the  lone  stranger.  I  know  that  you 
always  hated  us  Spaniards,  but  you  never  mocked  me  in  this 
way  till  now." 

"There  it  is  again,'7  exclaimed  the  poor  suitor.  "I  guessed 
how  it  would  all  turn  out  ;  never  did  know  how  to  manage  one 
of  the  sex — never  shall  !  Look  here,  Maria,  I'm  in  earnest — 
very  much  in  earnest ;  ask  Lady  Catherine — ask  Zana  if  I'm 
not  determined  on  it." 

Turner  gathered  himself  up,  moved  awkwardly  enough  to 
ward  Maria,  and  taking  her  hand  looked  at  it  wistfully,  as  if 
quite  uncertain  what  to  do  next. 

"  I  never  kissed  a  woman's  hand  in  my  life,"  he  said,  des 
perately,  "  but  I'll  kiss  yours,  on  my  soul  I  will,  if  you'll  just 
marry  me  without  more  ado." 

She  leaned  heavily  against  the  window,  and  said  more  tem 
perately, 

"  Say,  why  have  you  asked  this  of  me  ?" 

I  do  not  know  what  Turner  would  have  replied,  for,  obeying 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  I  came  forward,  and  before  either 
of  them  were  aware  of  my  approach,  stood  in  the  room. 

"  Tell  her  the  whole,  dear  Mr.  Turner,"  I  said,  going  up  to 
Maria  with  a  degree  of  reverence  I  had  never  felt  for  her  before. 
"  She  ought  to  know  it — she  must  know  that  you  are  asking 
her  to  marry  you  that  Lady  Catherine  may  not  turn  us  all 
adrift  on  the  world  ;  that  the  people  may  stop  pointing  at  me 
because  I  have  no  father." 

Maria  flung  her  arms  around  me. 

"  There — there  !"  exclaimed  Turner,  moving  toward  the  door, 
"you  see  I've  done  my  best,  Zana,  and  have  got  everybody 


THE     RELUCTANT     PROPOSAL.  239 

crying.  Tell  her  yourself,  child  ;  just  arrange  it  between  you; 
call  for  me  when  all's  ready ;  what  I  say  I  stand  to." 

The  old  man  writhed  himself  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Maria 
and  I  together. 

My  good,  bonne  was  greatly  agitated,  and  besought  me  to 
explain  the  scene  I  had  interrupted,  but  I  could  not  well  under 
stand  it  myself.  All  I  knew  was,  that  this  marriige  had  been 
demanded  by  Lady  Catherine  as  a  condition  of  our  remaining 
in  the  house.  I  repeated,  word  for  word,  what  I  had  gathered 
of  the  conversation  between  her  and  Turner,  omitting  only 
those  expressions  of  reluctance  that  had. escaped  my  benefac 
tor.  She  listened  attentively,  but  being  almost  a  child,  like 
myself,  in  English  custom,  could  not  comprehend  why  this 
necessity  had  arisen  for  any  change  in  our  condition. 

"  And  do  you  hate  Mr.  Turner  so  much  ?"  I  said,  breaking 
a  fit  of  though tfulness  into  which  she  had  fallen.  "  I  thought 
you  liked  each  other  till  now;  don't,  oh,  my  bonne,  don't  marry 
him  if  it  troubles  you  so  1  You  and  I  can  get  a  living  some 
how  without  taking  him  from  his  place." 

"  Yes — two  children — why,  Zana,  you  know  more  of  the 
world  than  I  do.  Where  could  we  go  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  without  Mr.  Turner,  what  we  should  do,"  I 
answered,  sadly. 

"  Without  him,  why,  Zana — without  him  we  should  both 
die  1" 

"  Oh,  Maria,  my  bonne,  if  you  could  but  like  Mr.  Turner, 
only  a  little,  just  enough  to  marry  him,  you  know  1"  I  exclaimed, 
amid  my  tears. 

"  Like  him,  Zana  ?  I  have  had  nothing  but  him  and  you  in 
the  world  for  years,"  she  said,  weeping. 

"  Then  you  do  like  him — you  will  marry  him  1"  I  exclaimed, 
full  of  joy. 

She  strained  me  to  her  bosom  and  kissed  me  in  her  old  pas 
sionate  way.  I  sprang  from  her  arms  the  moment  they  were 
loosened,  and  ran  <Jff  in  search  of  Mr.  Turner. 

He  was  working  in  the  garden,  stamping  the  earth  around  a 


24:0  THE     JOVIAL     WEDDING 

young  laburnum  tree,  which  he  had  just  planted,  with  a  sort  of 
ferocious  vehemence,  as  if  striving  to  work  away  some  lingering 
irritation. 

"  Go  in  and  speak  with  her  now,"  I  said,  pulling  his  arm. 

"  No,  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself  once,  and  that  is  enough  !" 
he  answered,  shaking  me  off.  "I  didn't  think  any  woman  living 
could  have  driven  me  to  it." 

Still  he  moved  toward  the  house. 

That  evening  Mr.  Turner  was  absent  both  from  our  cottage 
and  the  Hurst.  He  came  back  the  next  day  with  a  portentous- 
looking  paper,  which  he  and  Maria  scanned  over  with  great 
interest.  When  I  asked  regarding  it,  they  told  me,  with  a 
good  deal  of  awkwardness,  that  it  was  a  marriage  license. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

THE   JOVIAL   WEDDING   AND   RANDOM   SHOT. 

Two  or  three  mornings  after  this,  I  was  sent  over  to  the  par 
sonage  to  spend  the  day  with  Cora.  Maria  took  more  than 
usual  care  in  dressing  me.  I  went  forth  in  a  white  muslin 
dress,  fluttering  with  rose-colored  ribbons,  quite  too  fairy-like 
for  my  usual  morning  visits  to  this  my  second  home.  But 
Cora  was  also  floating  about  in  clouds  of  white  muslin,  with 
glimpses  of  azure  here  and  there  about  her  arms  and  bosom, 
as  if  arrayed  for  some  festival.  How  flowerlike  was  the  style 
of  her  loveliness  1  Those  ringlets  of  glossy  gold;  the  violet 
eyes  full  of  softness,  downcast,  and  yet  so  brilliant  when  she 
smiled ;  the  rounded  arms,  the  neck  and  shoulders,  white  and 
satiny  as  when  I  first  saw  them  by  the  spring;  the  little  foot 
and  hand,  slender  and  rosy :  all  these  pointe  of  beauty  are  be 
fore  me  this  instant,  vividly  as  if  painted  on  canvas.  There  is 


AND     RANDOM      SHOT.  241 

a  reason  why  they  should  have  sunk  deep  into  my  heart — a 
cruel  reason  which  the  hereafter  will  disclose. 

Her  father  was  in  his  clerical  robes,  walking  up  and  down 
the  little  parlor  gently,  as  he  always  moved,  and  with  a  soft 
smile  on  his  lips,  as  if  amusing  himself  with  some  odd  fancy. 

"  Come  in,  my  child,"  he  said,  with  a  change  of  expression, 
brought  on,  I  felt,  by  a  more  serious  current  of  thought  which 
my  appearance  suggested.  "  Come  in — you  will  find  Cora  in 
her  room." 

I  paused,  as  was  my  habit,  $o  kiss  his  hand  in  passing,  but 
he  detained  me  a  moment,  pressing  his  lips  upon  my  forehead. 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  said,  "  and  make  you  worthy  of  all  that 
your  friends  are  so  willing  to  suffer  in  your  behalf." 

I  went  away  to  Cora's  room.  I  have  told  you  how  very  lovely 
she  appeared  in  her  pretty  dress,  but  it  is  impossible  to  describe 
the  graceful  undulations  of  each  movement,  the  bewitching  soft 
ness  of  her  smile  !  My  own  olive  complexion  and  deep  bloom 
seemed  coarse  and  rude  beside  her. 

"  And  so  you  have  come  to  the  wedding,"  she  said,  wreath 
ing  her  arm  around  my  waist,  and  drawing  me  before  the  little 
mirror  at  which  she  had  been  dressing.  "  Isn't  it  a  droll  affair 
altogether  ?" 

"  They  are  very  kind,  very  good  to  me,"  I  replied,  a  little 
hurt  by  her  air  of  ridicule. 

"  And  to  me  1"  was  her  laughing  reply  ;  "  this  is  the  very 
first  wedding  I  shall  have  seen.  Isn't  it  charming.  The  people 
will  be  here  from  Greenhurst  ;  the  young  heir,  perhaps." 

Why  did  that  spasm  shoot  through  my  heart  so  suddenly  ? 
I  was  looking  upon  the  reflection  of  Cora's  beauty.  It  was  a 
lovely  vision,  but  the  color  went  from  my  own  cheek  as  I  gazed 
on  hers,  and  that  made  the  contrast  between,  us  strange  and 
corker.  I  remembered  that  George  Irving  would  look  on  that 
lovely  vision  also  ;  and  the  first  sharp  pang  of  jealousy  known 
to  my  life  tore  its  way  through  my  bosom.  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  but  sickened  under  it  as  the  grass  withers  beneath 
a  Upas  tree. 

11   . 


24:2  THE     JOVIAL     WEDDING 

I  struggled  against  myself,  conscious  that  the  feeling  was 
wrong,  though  ignorant  of  its  nature,  but  other  thoughts 
mingled  with  these  selfish  ones.  I  was  astonished  and  hurt 
that  strangers  should  force  themselves  upon  a  ceremony  which 
the  parties  desired  to  be  private.  It  seemed  rude  and  cruel  to 
the  last  degree. 

But  I  was  called  into  the  parlor.  Turner  and  Maria  were  in 
sight  quietly  crossing  the  fields  together  without  the  least  pre- 
tention.  Maria  looked  nice  and  matronly  in  her  dress  of  soft 
grey  silk  and  cap  of  snowy  lace  -p  Turner  wore  his  ordinary  suit 
of  black,  for  he  had  long  since*  flung  off  livery,  and  bore  his 
usual  business-like  appearance.  It  was  impossible  to  find  any 
thing  to  condemn  in  persons  so  free  from  affectation  of  any 
kind.  For  my  part  I  was  proud  of  my  benefactors  ;  there 
was  a  respectability  about  them  that  no  ridicule  could  reach. 

We  entered  a  little  church,  and  found  it  already  occupied  by 
a  large  party  of  strangers,  guests  from  Greenhurst.  I  saw 
Turner  start  and  change  color  as  he  went  in,  but  pressing  his 
thin  lips  together  till  they  were  almost  lost  among  his  wrinkles, 
he  walked  firmly  on,  holding  Maria  by  the  hand. 

I  saw  it  all,  I  knew  that  he  was  suffering  tortures  from  those 
impertinent  people,  and  all  for  my  sake.  It  seemed  as  if  my 
presence  would  be  some  support  to  them  ;  and  when  Cora 
would  have  turned  into  a  pew  close  to  that  occupied  by  Lady 
Catherine,  I  resisted  and  led  her  up  to  the  altar. 

There,  on  the  very  spot  where  Cora's  mother  had  rested  in 
her  death  sleep,  Turner  and  Maria  were  married.  I  thought 
of  all  this,  and  it  made  my  heart  swell  with  unshed  tears  ;  but 
Cora  seemed  to  have  forgotten  it  entirely.  Her  downcast  eyes 
wandered  sideways  toward  the  intruders  all  the  time.  The 
two  great  mysteries  of  life,  death  and  marriage,  which  we  had 
witnessed,  and  were  witnessing  together  by  that  altar  stono, 
were  driven  from  her  mind. 

The  ceremony  was  over.  Turner  and  his  wife  moved  away, 
passing  through  the  crowd  with  a  serious  dignity  that  would 
make  itself  respected.  I  would  have  followed  close,  but  Cora 


AND     RANDOM     SHOT.  243 

held  back,  keeping  on  a  range  with  the  intruders.  Lady 
Catherine  was  directly  before  us,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  an 
old  gentleman  I  had  seen  in  the  hunt. 

"  Ah,  Lady  Catherine,  your  benign  goodness  is  felt  every, 
where,"  he  was  saying.  "It  must  have  had  an  angel's  power 
in  reforming  this  old  stoic  !" 

"  Hush,"  said  the  lady,  touching  his  arm  with  her  gloved 
finger,  ''his  daughter  is  just  behind  us  I" 

"  What>  the  little  Diana  1"  exclaimed  the  gentleman,  look 
ing  over  his  shoulder.  "  I  would  give  fifty  pounds  to  see  her 
again." 

"  She  will  hear  you  !"  whispered  the  lady,  impatiently. 

"And  who  is  the  other  little  elf?"  cried  the  old  squire, 
whose  admiration  was  not  to  be  subdued.  "Why,  dear  lady, 
you  have  a  new  race  of  fairies  and  goddesses  springing  up  about 
Greenhurst.  Take  heed  that  my  friend  George  is  not  made 
captive." 

"I  followed  the  old  squire's  look,  and  saw  George  Irving, 
with  another  young  man,  fairer  and  taller  than  himself,  with 
their  eyes  riveted  on  Cora. 

I  remained  with  Cora  all  night.  She  was  full  of  gleeful 
gossip  about  the  wedding,  and  more  than  once  spoke  of  the  young 
gentleman  who  had  looked  at  her  so  often.  She  did  not  say  so 
admiringly,  but  I  knew  well  the  glow  of  vanity  that  led  her 
thoughts  that  way,  and  the  subject  caused  me  unaccountable 
pain.  I  listened  to  her,  therefore,  with  impatience,  and  while 
her  beauty  seemed  more  fascinating  than  ever,  its  brilliancy 
wounded  me.  It  was  a  precocious  and  wrong  feeling,  I  confess, 
but  there  were  many  passionate  sensations  in  my  heart  even 
then,  which  some  women  live  from  -youth  to  age  and  never 
know. 

I  was  reluctant  to  go  home — to  meet  Turner  and  Maria  after 
the  sacrifice  and  insult  of  the  previous  day.  It  seemed  as  if 
they  must  hate  me  for  being  the  cause  of  it  all.  But  deep  in 
the  morning,  I  put  on  my  bonnet  and  prepared  to  return  home, 
Cora  proposed  to  go  part  way  with  me,  and  though  I  preferred 


244  THE     JOVIAL     WEDDING 

to  be  alone,  she  persisted  with  laughing  obstinacy,  and  flinging 
a  scarf  over  her  head,  ran  after  me  down  the  garden. 

I  was  very  willing  to  loiter  on  the  way,  and  we  turned  into 
the  fields  enjoying  the  soft  autumn  air,  and  searching  for  hazel- 
nuts  along  the  stone  fences. 

We  came  to  a  thicket  where  the.  fruit  was  abundant,  and  so 
ripe  that  we  had  but  to  shake  the  golden  husks,  and  the  nuts 
came  rattling  in  showers  around  us.  I  clambered  up  the  wall, 
and  seizing  a  heavy  branch  from  the  thicket,  showered  the  nuts 
into  the  pretty  siljs:  apron  which  Cora  held  up  with  both  white 
hands. 

I  think  -in  my  whole  life  I  never  saw  anything  so  lovely  as 
she  was  at  that  moment.  The  blue  scarf  floated  back  upon  the 
wind,  circling  her  head  as  you  see  the  drapery  around  one  of 
Guide's  angels  ;  her  eyes  sparkled  with  merriment :  and  she 
shook  back  the  curls  from  her  face  with  a  laugh,  gleeful  and 
mellow,  as  if  she  had  fed  on  ripe  peaches  all  her  days. 

"  Stop,  stop,  you  will  smother  me  !"  she  shouted,  gathering 
the  apron  in  a  heap,  and  holding  up  both  hands  to  protect  her 
curls  from  the  shower  of  nuts  that  I  was  impetuously  beating 
over  her. 

I  paused,  instantly,  ashamed  of  the  action,  which  had  been 
unconscious  as  it  was  violent. 

"Did  the  nuts  hurt  you ?"  I  said,  bending  forward  to  address 
her. 

"  No,  no;  just  a  little  when  they  struck  my  forehead  :  nothing 
more  !"  she  said,  still  laughing,  but  with  the  rosy  palm  of  her 
hand  pressed  to  one  temple  that  was  slightly  flushed. 

That  instant  I  heard  the  report  of  a  fowling-piece  close  by, 
and  a  thrush  fell,  with  a  death  shriek,  down  to  the  hazel 
thicket.  It  beat  its  wings  about  among  the  green  leaves  an 
instant,  then  fell  heavily  through,  lodging  at  Cora's  feet.  Her 
laugh  died  away  in  a  sob  ;  the  poor  thing  grew  pale  as  death, 
and  I  saw  with  a  shudder  that  two  great  drops  of  blood  had 
fallen  upon  her  neck. 

She  dropped  the  nuts  from  her  apron,  and  sank  down  to  the 


4  AND     RANDOM     SHOT.  245 

earth.  I  sprang  upright  on  the  wall  and  looked  around, 
excited  and  angry,  for  the  shot  had  rattled  against  the  very 
stones  upon  which  I  was  seated. 

"  Great  heavens  !  what  is  this  ?  Are  you  hurt  ?"  cried  a 
voice,  and  I  saw  George  Irving,  with  his  young  companion  of 
the  previous  day,  running  toward  us  ;  while  a  fine  pointer  cleared 
the  wall  in  search  of  the  dead  bird. 

"  I  do  not  know  ;  there  is  blood  on  Cora's  neck,  it  may  be 
only  from  the  bird,"  I  answered,  leaping  to  the  ground.  "  Cora, 
Cora,  look  up — are  you  hurt  ?" 

I  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  strove  to  lift  her  from  the 
ground,  for  she  made  no  answer.  Some  one  cleared  the  wall 
with  the  leap  of  a  deer  and  pushed  me  aside.  I  saw  Cora  lifted 
in  the  arms  of  a  young  man,  and  heard  her  begin  to  soil?  with 
hysterical  violence. 

"  She  is  not  hurt ;  it  is  not  her  blood  !"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so 
calm,  that  though  full  of  music,  it  grated  on  my  ear,  and  with 
his  cambric  handkerchief  he  wiped  the  blood  spots  from  her  neck- 
"She  is  frightened  a  little,  nothing  more." 

"  Nothing  more  1"  exclaimed  Irving,  passionately,  "  why,  is 
not  that  enough,  brigands  that  we  are,  to  terrify  the  sweet 
child  into  this  state!" 

I  felt  myself  growing  cold  from  head  to  foot,  for  Irving  had 
taken  the  weeping  girl  from  her  supporter,  and  held  her  gently 
in  his  own  arms.  She  opened  her  eyes — those  beautiful  violet 
eyes — and  a  smile  broke  through  the  tears  that  filled  them 

I  grew  faint,  a  mist  crept  around  me,  and  I  leaned  against  the 
wall  for  support.  No  one  seemed  to  observe  it,  for  I  made  no 
noise,  and  they  were  busy  with  her. 

"  I  am  glad  .that  it  is  no  worse  ;  the  leaves  were  so  thick,  and 
I  looked  only  at  the  bird  :  Can  you  stand  now  ?  The  blood  is 
all  away,  nothing  but  a  rosy  glow  on  your  neck  is  left  to  re 
proach  us." 

It  was  Irving's  voice,  and  I  could  see  dimly  as  through  a 
mist  that  Cora  still  clung  to  him,  and  that  he  was  looking  into 
her  eyes.  Then  I  heard  another  voice,  calm  and  caustic  as  if 


246  THE     JOVIAL     WEDDING  > 

feelings  like  my  own  lay  at  the  bottom,  suppressed  but  obser 
vant. 

"  In  all  this  you  overlook  the  real  evil,"  it  said,  "  don't  you 
see,  Irving,  that  while  this  child  does  not  require  so  much  care, 
the  other  is  really  suffering — nay,  wounded  ?" 

I  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  my  arm,  just  above  the  elbow,  as  he 
spoke,  forgotten  till  then  in  the  more  bitter  pang  at  my  heart; 
and  through  the  mistiness  that  still  crept  over  my  eyes,  I  saw 
a  slender  stream  of  crimson  trickling  down  and  dropping  from 
my  fingers. 

"  She  is  hurt  indeed — a  shot  has  gone  through  her  arm," 
exclaimed  Irving,  and  I  felt  through  every  nerve  that  he  had 
put  Cora  away  from  his  support  almost  forcibly,  and  was  close 
by  me.  Young  as  I  was,  the  master  feeling  of  my  natuTe  awoke 
then,  and  I  started  from  the  wall,  dizzy  and  confused,  but  de 
termined  that  he  should  not  touch  me. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  I  said,  winding  my  handkerchief  around  the 
arm,  and  turning  haughtily  away.  "  Come,  Cora,  shall  we  go  ?" 

"  Let  me  rest,  Zana,  I  am  so  tired  and  frightened  1"  she 
said,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  filled  again. 

Irving's  face  flushed  crimson  as  I  repulsed  his  offered  support, 
and  though  the  look -with  which  he  regarded  me 'was  regretful, 
it  was  proud  too.  When  Cora  spoke  in  her  sweet  pleading 
way,  he  bent  his  eyes  upon  her  with  an  expression  of  relief,  but 
turned  to  me  again. 

"  It  is  an  accident;  you  cannot  suppose  I  wounded  you  on 
purpose,"  he  said,  pleadingly.  "  Why  are  you  so  unforgiving  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  was  my  cold  answer. 

"  You  are  wounded  !     Is  that  nothing  ?" 

"  It  is  nothing;  and  if  it  were,  the  wound  was  not  intended 
for  me." 

He  looked  at  me  earnestly,  as  if  pained  and  embarrassed  by 
the  manner  with  which  I  received  his  apologies ;  then  he  turned 
toward  Cora. 

"  I  hope  my  friend  is  not  mistaken — that  I  have  not  injured 
you  also." 


:  AND     RANDOM     SHOT.  247 

"  No,"  replied  Cora,  casting  her  eyes  to  the  ground  and 
blushing.  "  I  was  terrified  ;  the  feeling  of  blood  :  fear  for  Zana 
made  me  tremble,  but  I  am  not  hurt." 

"  Thank  heaven  1"  exclaimed  young  Irving,  and  gathering 
up  her  azure  scarf,  he  dropped  it  lightly  over  the  shining  gold 
of  her  hair.  I  watched  him  with  burning  indignation.  His 
gentle  interest  in  Cora,  who  was  all  unharmed,  seemed  a  mock 
ery  to  the  stinging  pain  of  my  arm.  I  forgot  how  coldly  I  had 
received  his  sympathy,  and  like  all  impulsive  but  proud  natures, 
fancied  that  he  must  read  my  feelings,  not  my  actions,  and 
judged  him  by  the  fancy. 

"  I  must  go  home  now,  the  morning  is  almost  gone  I"  I  said 
to  Cora.  "  Are  you  well  enough  to  move  on  ?" 

"  No,  I  tremble  yet,"  she  said  sweetly  ;  "  your  wound  pains 
me  more  than  it  does  yourself,  Zana,  it  has  taken  away  all  my 
strength." 

"  Then  I  will  go  alone,"  was  my  curt  rejoinder.  "  My  arm 
bleeds." 

I  started  sudddtly,  and  almost  ran  toward  home. 

Directly  I  heard  a  light  step  following  me. 

"  This  is  unkind,  cruel  !"  said  Irving,  pleading;  "  let  me  help 
you  ?" 

The  pride  of  my  heart  was  subdued;  I  rejaxed  the  speed 
with  which  I  had  moved,  and  listened  with  a  thrill  of  grateful 
pleasure. 

"  You  smile — your  color  comes  back,  thanks  1"  he  said, 
gaily. 

I  could  not  answer.  The  sweet  sensations  that  overwhelmed 
me  were  too  exquisite  for  words. 

"  You  will  not  speak  to  me,"  said  Irving,  stooping  forward 
to  look  in  my  face. 

My  eyes  met  his,  I  felt  the  lids  drooping  over  them,  and, 
spite  of  myself,  began  to  tremble  with  delicious  joy.  Like  a 
cup  full  of  honey,  my  heart  overflowed  with  sighs,  but  I  could 
neither  speak  nor  look  him  in  the  face.  Did  he  understand  it 
all  ?  Did  he  read  in  my  face  all  that  was  making  a  heaven  in 


248  THE     JOVIAL     WEDDING 

my  heart  ?  All  I  know  is,  that  he  grew  silent  like  myself,  and 
we  moved  on  together  through  the  soft  atmosphere  like  two 
young  creatures  in  a  dream.  At  length  some  obstacle  arose  in 
our  path.  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  we  paused  and  looked 
at  each  other.  My  eyes  did  not  droop  then,  but  were  fasci 
nated  by  the  deep,  earnest  tenderness  that  filled  his.  I  met 
that  gaze,  and  kept  it  forever  in  my  soul,  the  most  solemn  and 
beautiful  memory  ever  known  to  it. 

"  Zana,  do  you  love  me  ?" 

The  question  fell  upon  my  ear  like  a  whisper  of  expected 
music.  I  had  listened  for  it  with  hushed  breath,  for  with  the 
soft  atmosphere  of  love  all  around  me,  it  came  naturally  as 
lightning  in  a  summer  cloud.  I  think  he  repeated  the  question 
twice  before  the'  joy  at  my  heart  sprang  with  a  deep,  delicious 
breath  to  my  lips. 

"  Zana,  do  you  love  me  ?" 

"  Do  I  love  you  ?     Yes,  oh,  yes  1" 

As  the  words  left  my  soul,  a  calm,  solemn  contentment 
brooded  down  like  a  dove  upon  it.  The  feeding  was  too  holy 
and  sweet  for  blushes.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  par 
taken  of  an  angel's  nature  while  uttering  it.  Up  to  that 
moment  I  had  never  dwelt  upon  the  thought  of  love,  save  as  a 
pleasant  household  feeling.  .  The  passion  of  love  I  did  not  even 
then  comprehend,  notwithstanding  it  beat  in  every  pulse  of  my 
warm  southern  bldod. 

He  took  my  hand,  holding  it  with  a  firm,  gentle  pressure,  and 
thus  we  walked  on  softly  and  still  as  the  summer  air  moves 
among  the  daisies.  I  can  imagine  Adam  and  Eve  walking  thus 
in  Paradise,  when  the  temptation  first  crept  across  their  path. 
I  can  imagine  them  starting  at  the  evil  thing,  as  we  did  when 
Irving's  tutor  came  suddenly  upon  us.  He  was  a  sweet-voiced, 
quiet  man  some  ten  years  older  than  Irving,  and  a  great  favor 
ite  with  Lady  Catherine.  I  did  not  like  his  manners,  they  were 
fawning  and  yet  cold — his  very  humility  was  oppressive. 

"  You  walk  slowly,"  he  said,  in  his  calm,  silky  way  ;  "  no 
wonder,  it  is  a  delightfu1  morning." 


AND     RANDOM      SHOT.  249 

Irving  tightened  his  grasp  on  my  hand. 

"  You  can  find  the  way  home  now,"  he  said,  dropping  it  and 
turning  away  with  his  tutor. 

"  Nay,  this  is  ungallant,  Irving,"  said  that  person,  moving 
toward  me  ;  "you  forget  her  arm  seems  hurt." 

"  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  it,"  was  the  reply,  and  he  came  back. 
"  Can  you  forgive  me  1" 

I,  too,  had  forgotten  it. 

"  There  is  no  pain  left,"  was  my  answer.  "  Go  away  with 
him,  he  troubles  me." 

"  And  me  !"  was  the  murmured  reply. 

They  went  away  together,  leaving  me  alone  with  my  great 
happiness. 

It  is  said  that  love  gives  beauty  to  all  material  things.  It 
may  be  so  with  others,  but  to  me  nature  looked  faded  and 
insignificant  that  day.  I  longed  for  a  rainbow  in  the  skies  ; 
for  a  carpet  of  blossoms  under  my  feet ;  for  the  breath  of  roses 
in  every  gush  of  air.  Nothing  but  heaven  could  have  matched 
the  beautiful  joy  of  my  soul. 

For  three  days  my  rich  contentment  lasted.  During  that 
time  I  scarcely  seemed  to  have  a  mortal  feeling.  When  fancy 
could  sustain  itself  no  longer,  came  the  material  want  of  his 
presence.  My  heart  had  fed  upon  its  one  memory  over  and 
over  again.  Now  it  grew  hungry  for  fresh  certainties.  I 
began  to  think  of  the  future,  to  speculate  and  doubt.  Why 
had  he  kept  away  ?  Where  was  he  now  ?  Had  I  been  dream 
ing — only  dreaming  ? 

I  did  not  observe  Turner  and  Maria  in  their  new  relations. 
At  another  time  their  awkward  tenderness  and  shy  love-making 
would  have  amused  me,  but  now  I  scarcely  remarked  it,  and  in 
their  embarrassment  they  forgot  to  notice  me. 

Perhaps  they  would  have  detected  nothing  remarkable  had 
they  been  ever  so  vigilant,  for  I  was  self-centred  in  my  own 
happiness,  and  joy  like  mine  was  too  deep  and  dreamy  for  easy 
detection. 

11* 


250         MY     FIEST      VISIT     TO     GKEENHTJBST. 


CHAPTER    XXXYI. 

MY    FIRST   VISIT   TO    GREENHURST THE   TWO   MINIATURES. 

ON  the  third  day,  Lady  Catherine  sent  for  me  to  come  up  to 
the  Hurst.  It  seems  she  was  resolved  to  carry  out  her  plan  of 
giving  me  such  accomplishments  as  I  could  pick  up,  without 
expense,  from  her  son's  tutor,  and  her  own  waiting-maid. 

I  went,  not  without  a  pang  of  wounded  pride,  but  too  happy 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  for  thought  of  much  else. 
Lady  Catherine  was  in  her  dressing-room,  and  several  ladies, 
whom  I  afterward  learned  were  guests  from  London,  had  joined 
her,  it  seems,  curious  to  see  the  wild  wood-nymph  who  had 
made  a  sensation  at  the  hunt. 

Lady  Catherine  half  rose  from  her  silken  lounge  as  I  entered, 
and  motioned  me  to  sit  down  on  an  embroidered  ottoman,  first 
lifting  from  it  ^a  little  tan-colored  spaniel,  which  she  settled 
beside  her  on  the  couch.  I  sat  down,  with  a  burning  forehead, 
for  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  placed  me  and  the  dog  on  an 
equal  level,  if  indeed  the  animal  did  not  meet  with  higher  esti 
mation  than  the  human  pet. 

"  Isn't  she  a  spirited,  wild  little  beauty  ?"  she  said,  addressing 
a  young  girl  some  two  years  older  than  myself,  perhaps,  who 
was  busy  working  seed-pearls  into  a  bit  of  embroidery. 

The  young  lady  looked  coldly  up,  and,  after  scanning  me 
from  head  to  foot,  dropped  her  eyes  again,  murmuring  some 
thing  about  my  being  older  than  she  had  supposed.  Lady 
Catherine  drew  her  hand  down  the  folds  of  my  hair,  exclaiming 
at  its  thickness  and  lustre,  just  as  she  had  handled  the  silky 
ears  of  her  King  Charles  a  moment  before. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  long  and  so  raven  black,"  she 


THE     TWO     MINIATURES.  251 

said,  uncoiling  a  heavy  braid  from  around  my  head,  and  holding 
it  up  at  full  length. 

"  That  sort  of  hair  is  often  seen  in  persons  of  mixed  blood," 
answered  the  young  lady,  without  lifting  her  eyes,  "  long,  but  of 
a  coarser  texture.  I  must  confess  black  is  not  my  favorite 
color." 

"You  must  take  an  interest  in  this  poor  child — indeed  you 
must,  Estelle  ;  I  have  quite  depended  on  it — she  will  be  quick 
to  learn  :  won't  you,  child  ?  Let  her  look  over  some  of  your 
drawings,  Estelle.  I  dare  say  she  never  saw  anything  like  them 
in  her  life  !" 

The  young  lady  kept  at  her  work,  not  seeming  to  relish  the 
idea  of  amusing  a  creature  so  disagreeable  as  she  evidently 
found  me.  Lady  Catherine  arose  ;  she  spoke  to  the  young  girl 
in  a  subdued  voice,  but  not  a  syllable  escaped  me. 

"Nay,  love,  you  must.  It  will  please  George  more  than 
anything  ;  besides,  I  promised  as  much  to  her  father  in  order 
to  induce  him  to  abandon  that  horrid  way  of  life.  It  is  quite 
a  moral  duty  to  civilize  the  child,  now  that  the  parents  are 
married  ;  George  looks  upon  it  in  this  light,  I  assure  you." 

"  I  would  do  anything  to  please  him,  you  know,"  said  the 
girl,  half  sullenly,  "  but  he  never  sees  my  efforts  ;  never  cares 
for  them." 

"  Who  should  know,  dearest,  but  the  mother  who  is  his  con 
fidant  ?"  was  the  caressing  reply.  "  How  can  you  doubt  what 
I  tell  you  ?" 

"  Well,"  replied  the  girl,  rising,  "  let  the  child  come  to  my 
dressing-room  1" 

"  No,  love,"  interposed  Lady  Catherine;  "  bring  them  here — 
I  never  weary  of  them  myself." 

The  young  lady  withdrew,  and  returned  with  a  richly  em 
broidered  portfolio  crowded  full  of  drawings.  She  spread  them 
out  upon  a  table,  and  haughtily  motioned  me  to  approach. 

The  drawings  were  evidently  copies  highly  finished,  but  varia 
ble  as  if  more  than  one  pencil  had  performed  its  part  there. 


252         MY     FIRST     VISIT     TO      GEEENHTJK8T. 

My  quick  intuition  told  me  this  at  a  glance,  and  I  looked  into 
the  girt's  face  with  a  feeling 'of  scorn  which  doubtless  spoke  in 
my  features.  She  probably  held  me  in  so  much  contempt  that 
my  look  was  unnoticed,  for  she  continued  to  turn  over  the 
drawings  with  haughty  self-possession,  as  if  quite  careless  of 
any  opinion  I  might  form. 

At  last  we  came  to  a  head  sketched  with  care,  and  evidently 
an  attempt  at  some  likeness. 

"Do  you  know  that?"  said  Esielle,  "probably  you  have 
never  seen  Mr.  Irving." 

"I  have  seen  Mr.  Irving,"  was  my  answer,  "but  this  is  not 
in  the  least  like  him." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  draw  a  better  one  !"  she  said,  casting 
a  sneering  smile  toward  Lady  Catherine,  but  with  rising  color, 
as  if  she  were  a  good  deal  vexed. 

"  Perhaps,"  I  answered  very  quietly. 

"  Try,"  said  the  haughty  girl,  ,  taking  a  pencil  and  some 
paper  from  a  pocket  of  the  port-folio. 

I  took  the  pencil,  dropped  on  one  knee  by  the  table,  and, 
excited  by  her  sneers  into  an  attempt  that  I  should  have  held 
almost  sacrilegious  at  another  time,  transferred  a  shadow  of  the 
image  that  filled  my  soul  to  the  paper.  I  felt  the  look  of 
haughty  astonishment  with  which  the  young  patrician  bent  over 
me  as  I  worked  out  the  quick  inspiration. 

"  What  is  she  doing  ?"  inquired  Lady  Catherine,  gliding 
toward  the  table.  "  Why,  Estelle,  you  seem  entranced." 

Estelle  drew  proudly  back,  and  pointed  toward  me  with  a 
sneering  lift  of  the  upper  lip,  absolutely  hateful. 

"  You  have  found  a  prodigy  here,  madam,  nothing  less,"  she 
said  >  "  what  a  memory  the  creature  must  have  to  draw  like 
that  with  only  one  sight  of  your  son's  face  1" 

Lady  Catherine  bent  over  me,  and  I  felt  that  she  breathed 
unequally,  like  one  conquerring  an  unpleasant  surprise. 

"  What  an  impression  that  one  interview  must  have  made," 
persisted  the  young  lady. 


THE     TWO     MINIATURES.  253 

"  I  have  seen  Mr.  Irving  more  than  once  or  twice,"  I  answered, 
without  pausing  in  the  rapid  touches  of  my  pencil,  though  my 
heart  beat  loud  and  fast  as  I  spoke. 

"  Indeed,"  sneered  the  girl  with  a  glance  at  Lady  Catherine. 

"Indeed  1"  repeated  that  lady,  with  forced  unconcern;  "the 
child  wanders  among  the  trees  like  a  bird,  Estelle,  you  have 
no  idea  what  a  wild  gipsy  it  is  ;  we  must  civilize  her  between 
us." 

"Is  Mr.  Irving  to  help?  It  looks  like  that,"  answered 
Estelle,  spitefully. 

"  Is  there  anything  in  which  I  can  be  of  service  ?"  said  a 
voice  that  made  the  heart  leap  in  my  bosom  ;  but  so  perfect 
was  my  self-control  that  I  finished  the  shadow  upon  which  I 
was  at  work  mechanically,  as  if  every  nerve  in  my  system  were 
not  thrilling  like  the  strings  of  an  instrument. 

"  We  were  speaking  about  humanizing  this  strange  child  a 
little,"  said  Lady  Catherine  ;  "  she  really  has  a  good  deal  of 
originality,  as  we  were  saying,  and  Estelle  is  quite  charmed 
with  the  idea  of  bringing  it  out." 

My  soul  was  full  of  scornful  ridicule.  I  felt  it  breaking  up 
through  my  eyes,  and  curving  my  lip  as  I  looked  from  Estelle 
to  George  Irving.  His  own  face  caught  the  spirit,  and  he  met 
my  gla.nce  with  a  bright  smile  of  intelligence,  that  others  read 
as  well  as  myself. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  to  teach  music  to  a  woodlark,  dear  mo 
ther?"  he  said,  stooping  down  to  look  at  the  head  I  had 
sketched. 

My  heart  stood  still,  but  I  would  not  permit  myself  to  blush ; 
on  the  contrary,  there  was  a  dry,  cold  feeling  about  my  lips  as 
if  the  blood  were  leaving  them;  but  my  gaze  was  fascinated.  I 
could  not  turn  it  from  his  face,  and  when  the  warm  crimson 
rushed  up  over  his  brow  and  temples,  as  the  likeness  struck  him, 
my  breath  was  absolutely  stopped.  I  would  have  given  the 
universe  for  the  power  of  obliterating  my  own  work  from  the 
paper  and  from  his  brain.  There  was  anger,  reproach,  and  a 
dash  of  scorn  in  the  glance  which  he  turned  from  -the  likeness 


254:         MY     FIRST     VISIT     TO      GREENHUR6T. 

to  my  face.  I  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The  lids  drooped 
like  lead  over  the  shame  that  buraed  in  my  eyes;  a  feeling  that 
he  thought  my  act  indelicate  scorched  me  like  a  fire. 

"  The  likeness  does  not  seem  to  please  you,  Mr.  Irving,"  said 
Estelle,  and  her  face  brightened.  "  In  my  humility  I  had  sup 
posed  it  better  than  my  poor  attempt." 

"  Oh,  it  was  only  a  copy,  then  !"  he  cried,  laughing,  and  the 
cloud  left  his  face;  "  this  is  your  first  lesson,  and  my  poor  fea 
tures  the  subject.  You  honor  them  too  much;  pray  whose 
selection  was  it  ?" 

"  I  believe  my  sketch  gave  rise  to  the  other,"  answered 
Estelle,  casting  down  her  fine  eyes,  and  certainly  mistaking  the 
feelings  she  had  excited. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  answered  Irving,  and  the  glow  of  his 
countenance  bore  proof  of  his  sincerity. 

"  Now,",  said  Lady  Catherine,  in  her  usual  way,  which  with 
all  its  softness  had  authority  in  it,  "  let  us  settle  things  for  the 
morning.  We  visit  Marston  Court ;  Estelle  has  never  been 
thoroughly  over  the  house;  of  course  you  go,  George." 

He  did  not  seem  embarrassed,  but  thoughtful,  and,  after  a 
moment's  consideration,  replied,  "  Yes,  I  will  escort  you  on 
horseback.  Who  are  going  ?" 

The  guests  were  enumerated.  Most  of  the  names  I  had 
never  heard  before.  My  own  was  not  in  the  list. 

"  And  Zana  1"  said  Irving,  with  a  slight  rise  of  color  when 
his  mother  paused. 

"  Oh,  Zaua,  she  will  find  amusement  for  herself.  She  has 
never  seen  the  house  yet — besides,  as  your  tutor  remains  be 
hind,  he  can  take  the  opportunity  to  give  her  a  lesson  or  two." 
Lady  Catherine  looked  furtively  at  her  son  as  she  made  the 
proposition.  His  brow  clouded,  and  his  lips  were  set  together 
very  resolutely;  but  his  voic<5  was  low  and  respectful  as  he  re 
plied, 

"  Not  so,  madam  !  Unless  in  your  presence,  that  gentleman 
is  not  a  proper  person  to  teach  a  girl  like  Zana !" 

"  Dear  me,  you  are  really  making  the  thing  a  burden.     How 


THE     TWO     MINIATURES.  255 

• 

can  you  expect  all  these  formalities,  George,  in  a  case  like  this 
— and  me  with  nerves  wprn  down  to  a  thread  ?" 

"  I  will  teach  her  myself,"  was  the  firm  reply,  though  rays  of 
crimson  shot  across  his  forehe  ad  as  he  spoke. 

"  You,  George  ? — preposterous  1" 

"  Why  preposterous,  madam  ?" 

"  Your  youth  1" 

"  Is  my  tutor  old  ?" 

"  Your  position — your  prospects  !" 

He  laughed  in  a  gay,  light  fashion. 

"  Well,  should  my  Uncle  Clare  marry  again,  a  thing  not  un 
likely,  exercise  of  this  kind  will  be  a  useful  experience,  for  then 
I  shall  have  little  but  my  brains  to  depend  on."  • 

"  But  he  will  never  marry  ! — who  thinks  it  ?"  cried  the 
mother  impatiently. 

"  Men  of  a  little  more  than  forty  do  not  often  consider 
themselves  out  of  the  matrimonial  market,  mother."  . 

"  You  talk  wildly,  George.  Clare  will  never  marry  again — 
never,  never  1" 

"  And  if  he  does  not,  am  I  his  next  heir  ? — or  my  hopes 
of  advancement  and  fortune  rest  on  you,  lady  mother  ? — • 
you  who  certainly  will  not  own  yourself  too  old  for  a  second 
marriage  !" 

"  This  is  nonsense,  George  !" 

"  No,  sober  truth;  my  uncle — whom  heaven  preserve,  for  ho 
is  a  good  man — could  aid  me  nothing  in  his  death.  You  would 
inherit,  not  your  son;  the  ladies  of  our  line  are  a  privileged 
race." 

"  But  are  you  not  my  only  son  and  heir  ?" 

"  True  again;  and  your  favorite  while  I  do  not  offend." 

"  That  you  will  never  do,"  answered  the  mother,  with  a  glow 
of  feeling  in  her  voice. 

"  I  hope  not,  mother,"  he  said,  lifting  her  hand  to  his  lips 
with  an  expression  of  earnest  affection.  "  But  do  not  talk  to 
me  of  expectations  that  may  be  dreams ;  and  rank  that  may  find 
me,  when  it  comes,  a  broken-hearted  old  man  1" 


256         MY     FIEST     VISIT     TO     GEEENHTJRST. 

"  This  is  strange  talk,  George,  and  in  this  presence.  Estelle 
will  learn  to  look  upon  your  prospects  with  distrust." 

"  She,  with  all  my  friends,  will  do  well  to  think  of  me  only 
as  I  am,  the  dependent  of  a  good  uncle,  certain  of  nothing  but 
a  firm  will,  good  health,  and  an  honest  purpose  1"  he  answered, 
glancing,  not  at  the  haughty  patrician,  but  at  me. 

"  And  that  is  enough  for  any  man,"  I  exclaimed,  filled  with 
enthusiasm  by  his  proud  frankness.  "  What  inheritance  does 
he  require  but  that  honest,  firm  will,  which  cleaves  its  own 
way  in  the  world  ?  Oh,  how  the  soul  must  enjoy  the  blessings 
which  its  own  strength  has  had  the  power  to  win.  If  I  were  a 
man,  neither  gold  nor  rank  should  detract  from  my  native 
strength.  I  would  go  into  the  world  and  wrestle  my  way 
through,  not  for  the  wealth  or  the  power  that  might  come  of  it 
— but  for  the  strength  it  would  give  to  my  own  nature — the 
development — the  refining  process  of  exertion — the  sense  of 
personal  power.  In  that  must  lie  all  the  true  relish  of  great 
ness  I" 

The  guests  had  one  by  one  glided  from  Lady  Catherine's 
room  before  her  son  came  in,  and  no  one  listened  to  our  con 
versation  but  her  ladyship  and  the  girl  Estelle.  When  I 
ceased  speaking,  Lady  Catherine  sunk  among  the  cushions  of 
her  couch,  lifting  the  dog  to  her  bosom  as  if  she  feared  my  rash 
words  would  poison  the  creature  ;  while  her  young  friend  stood 
close  by  with  both  arms  folded  scornfully  over  her  bosom,  gaz 
ing  at  me  from  her  open  eyes,  as  if  there  had  been  something 
wicked  in  my  expression.  For  myself,  the  moment  my  rash 
enthusiasm  gave  way,  all  courage  went  with  it  ;  and  before  the 
fire  had  left  my  eyes  they  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Is  the  creature  mad,  or  a  sibyl  ?"  said  Lady  Catherine,  in 
a  voice  that  went  through  and  through  me. 

"  Mother,"  said  her  son, 'pale  as  death,  but  with  a  strange 
glory  of  expression  in  his  face — "  need  you  ask  again  whose 
blood  spoke  there  ?" 

He  addressed  her  in  a  whisper,  but  she  turned  white,  and 


THE     TWO     MINIATURES.  257 

lifted   her  finger  to  check  his  further  speech,   glancing  at 
Estelle. 

"  Strange  language  this  for  the  daughter  of  a  servant  1" 
exclaimed  Estelle,  her  bosom  heaving  with  scornful  astonish 
ment. 

"  I  am  not  the  daughter  of  a  servant,"  was  the  reply  that 
sprang  to  my  lips  ;  "  the  story  is  a  falsehood.  Turner  is  my 
benefactor,  my  more  than  fat>her  :  not  my  father  ;  but  if  he  were, 
why  should  my  words,  if  right,  not  spring  from  the  lips  of  his 
child  ?  Are  all  gifts  reserved  for  the  patrician  ?  Does  not  the 
great  oak  and  the  valley  lily  spring  from  exactly  the  same  soil  ? 
Thank  heaven  there  is  no  monopoly  in  thought  !" 

"  In  heaven's  name,  who  taught  you  these  things  ?"  cried 
Lady  Catherine,  aghast. 

"  Who  teaches  the  flowers  to  grow,  and  the  fruit  to  ripen  ?" 
I  answered,  almost  weeping,  for  my  words  sprang  from  an 
impulse,  subtle  and  evanescent  as  the  perfume  of  a  flower  ; 
and  like  all  sensitive  persons  I  shrunk  from  the  remembrance  of 
my  own  mental  impetuosity. 

"  Really,  your  ladyship,  you  must  excuse  me,  this  is  getting 
tiresome,"  said  Estelle,  sweeping  from  the  room  ;  "  I  fear  with 
all  your  goodness  the  child  will  prove  a  troublesome  pet." 

Lady  Catherine  sat  among  her  cushions  very  white,  and 
with  a  glitter  in  her  eyes  that  I  had  learned  to  shrink  from. 

"  Irving,"  she  said,  speaking  to  him  in  a  low  but  firm  voice, 
"plead  with  me  no  more — she  must  and  shall  leave  the  estate." 

"  Madam,  she  is  but  a  child  1" 

"  A  mischievous  one,  full  of  peril  to  us  all,  and  therefore,  to 
be  disposed  of  at  once.  Out  of  my  own  income  I  will  provide 
for  her  wants,  but  away  from  this  place — in  another  land,  per 
haps." 

I  felt  myself  growing  pale,  and  saw  that  Irving  was  also 
greatly  agitated.  He  looked  at  me  reproachfully,  and  mut 
tered,  "  imprudent — imprudent."  I  went  to  a  window,  and  lean 
ing  against  the  frame,  stood  patiently,  and  still  as  marble,  wait 
ing  for  my  sentence.  Again  my  rashness  had  perilled  all  that 


258         MY     FIRST     VISIT     TO     GBEENHURST. 

I  loved  ;  the  thought  froze  me  through  and  through;  I  hated  my 
self.  Irving  was  talking  to  his  mother  ;  she  had  forgotten  dig 
nity,  her  elegance,  everything  in  her  indignation  against  me.  At 
last  I  caught  some  of  his  words.  They  were  deep  and  deter 
mined. 

"  No,  mother,  I  will  not  consent.  If  our  suspicions  are  true, 
and  I  must  confess  every  day  confirms  them  in  my  estimation — 
the  course  you  propose  would  be  impolitic  as  cruel.  You  can 
not  keep  her  existence  from  Lord  Clare  ;  all  that  we  guess  he 
will  soon  learn.  He  is  just,  noble — think  if  he  would  forgive 
this  persecution  of — of  an  orphan — for  she  is  that  if  nothing 
more  I" 

"  But  am  I  to  be  annoyed — braved,  talked  down  by  a  child, 
and  before  my  own  guests  ?"  said  the  mother.  "  Who  knows 
the  mischief  she  has  already  done  with  Estelle  ?" 

"Mother,  I  beseech  you,  let  that  subject  drop.  It  is  a 
dream." 

"One  of  the  best  matches  in  England,  my  son  ;  a  golden 
dream  worth  turning  to  reality." 

"  No,  mother,  in  this  I  must  be  free," 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  free  !     That  child  !" 

They  were  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  the  mother  and 
son  reading  thoughts  there  that  each  would  gladly  have  con 
cealed  from  the  other.  I  came  forward. 

"  Madam,  let  me  go  home,  I  am  not  fit  for  this  place.  Let 
me  return,  and  I  will  trouble  you  no  more." 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  it  were  possible  for  you  to  keep  this 
promise,  girl." 

"  Let  me  go  home  ;  send  for  me  no  more  ;  I  will  never  wil 
lingly  cross  your  path  again." 

"  Nor  his  ?"  said  the  mother,  fixing  her  cold  eyes  on  my  face, 
and  pointing  to  her  son. 

"  Madam,  I  beseech  you,  let  me  go." 

"  But  I  have  promised  Turner  to  educate  you." 

"  Lady,  you  cannot.  Mr.  Clarke  has  taken  great  care  of  mey 
and  in  some  shape  I  have  educated  myself." 


THE     TWO     MINIATURES.  259 

"  You  are  a  strange  girl." 

"  I  feel  strange  here.     May  I  go  ?" 

She  fell  into  thought  with  her  eyes  on  my  face,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  work  of  marble. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  at  length,  "go,  but  I  feel  that  we  have  not 
done  with  each  other.  Now,  George,  equip  at  once  ;  we  have 
kept  our  guests  waiting  1" 

"  No,  mother,  I  cannot  go  to  Marston  Court ;  make  my 
excuses  1" 

He  went  out,  leaving  no  time  for  a  rejoinder  ;  and  Lady 
Catherine  followed.  I  was  alone  in  the  room. 

All  at  once  a  strange  sensation  came  over  me.  I  looked 
around  with  a  vague  feeling  of  dread.  Things  that  I  had  not 
before  noticed  were  strangely  familiar.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were 
iu  a  dream,  and  without  volition,  and  without  object,  I  crossed 
the  room  toward  a  small  antique  cabinet  that  stood  in  one 
corner.  The  lids  were  deeply  carved  and  set  heavily  with 
jewels.  It  is  a  solemn  truth,  I  was  unconscious  of  the  act,  but 
unclosing  th<?  cabinet  reached  forth  my  hand,  and  opened  a 
small,  secret  drawer  that  was  locked  with  a  curious  spring. 

Among  other  trinkets,  two  lockets  of  gold  lay  within  the 
drawer  ;  one  shap^l  like  a  shell,  and  paved  thickly  with  pearls  ; 
the  other  plain,  and  without  ornament  of  any  kind.  I  took  up 
the  shell,  and  it  sprung  open  in  my  hand,  revealing  two  faces 
that  seemed  like  something  that  had  floated  in  my  dreams  years ' 
ago.  One  was  that  of  a  man  in  the  first  proud  bloom  of  youth, 
with  a  brow  full  of  lofty  thought,  but  fair  and  of  a  delicate 
whiteness  that  we  seldom  see  beyond  infancy.  The  lips  and 
the  deep  blue  eyes  seemed  smiling  upon  me,  and  with  a  pang  of 
love,  for  it  was  half  pain,  I  kissed  it.  The  female  face  I  could 
not  look  upon.  It  seemed  to  me  like  the  head  of  an  evil  spirit 
that  was  to  haunt  my  destiny,  and  yet  it  possessed  a  wonder 
ful  fascination  to  me. 

I  laid  the  shell  down,  and  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  awe 
took  up  the  other  locket.  It  opened  with  difficulty,  and  when 
I  wrenched  the  spring  apart,  it  seemed  as  if  my  very  soul  had 


260  SOKKOWS,    DOUBTS 

received  a  strain.  It  was  a  miniature  also.  I  looked  upon  itv 
and  the  claw  of  some  fierce  bird  seemed  clutched  upon  my 
bosom  and  throat.  It  appeared  to  me  as  if  I  struggled  minutes 
and  minutes  in  its  gripe  ;  then  the  pressure  gave  way,  and 
with  a  burst  of  tears  I  cried  out,  "  the  face  ! — the  face  I" 

A  thin  hand  was  thrust  over  my  shoulder  and  snatched  the 
locket  away.  I  turned  and  saw  it  in  the  grasp  of  Lady  Cathe 
rine.  With  a  choking  cry  my  hands  were  flung  out,  and  I 
leaped  madly  upward  striving  to  snatch  it. 

"  Would  you  steal  ?  Are  you  a  thief?"  she  cried,  grasping 
the  locket  tight,  and  holding  it  on  high.  "  Would  you  steal  ? 
Are  you  a  thief  ?" 

The  words  went  hissing  through  my  ear.  A  hot  flush  of 
indignant  shame  clouded  my  sight,  and  I  saw  George  Irving, 
as  it  were,  through  waves  of  crimson  gauze,  looking  sternly 
upon  me. 

Then  all  grew  black  and  still  as  death. 


* 
CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

SORROWS,   DOUBTS   AND   CONJECTURES. 

THE  cold  dash  of  water  on  my  face  aroused  me,  and  I  awoke 
gasping  for  breath  aa  if  my  very  soul  had  felt  the  icy  deluge. 
Only  one  person  remained  in  the  room,  and  he  was  so  white 
that  it  seemed  like  waking  among  the  dead.  A  heavy  weight 
still  rested  on  my  brain,  and  after  a  struggle  or  two  I  felt 
myself  sinking  as  one  falls*  from  some  precipice  in  a  dream.  All 
at  once  it  appeared  to  me  that  I  had  been  pulled  back  with  vio 
lence.  My  lips  burned  as  if  a  handful  of  thorns  had  been 
drawn  across  them,  and  again  my  heavy  eyelids  were  lifted. 
Lady  Catherine  had  entered  the  room.  It  was  the  antipathy 


AND     CONJECTURES.  261 

of  our  natures  that  dragged  me  violently  back  from  uncon 
sciousness.  Instantly  the  pang  of  remembrance  returned,  and 
its  agony  gave  me  strength  to  hear  but  not  to  move. 

"  Is  she  conscious  yet  ?"  said  Lady  Catherine,  touching  me 
with  the  point  of  her  satin  slipper. 

"  She  has  moved  a  little,"  answered  a  voice,  so  deep  and 
sorrowful  that  my  heart  stood  still  to  listen. 

"  Let  something  be  done;  I  am  sick  of  her  !  Burn  feathers, 
bring  aromatic  vinegar — why,  is  no  servant  at  hand  ?" 

"  You  would  not  expose  the  poor  child  thus  to  our  servants, 
mother  ?"  was  the  reply. 

"  The  poor  child,  indeed  !  George,  George,  this  is  too  much  ! 
Yes,  I  would  expose  her  to  the  lowest  scullion  about  the  place — 
poor  child  !  The  thief  I— the  "— 

"  Mother  1" 

My  heart  leaped  at  the  stern  rebuke  conveyed  in  this  single 
word.  I  broke  through  the  leaden  feeling  that  held  me  motion 
less  and  rose  to  my  feet,  reeling  and  half  blind,  but  stung  into 
life  by  the  epithet  that  unwomanly  lady  had  applied  to  me. 

".Madam,"  I  said,  striving  to  sweep  the  mist  from  my  eyes 
with  one  hand — "  madam,  you  are  false,  body  and  soul.  You 
know  that  I  could  not  steal  the  picture  of  my  own  mother. 
God  gives  to  every  child  a  mother.  Who  shall  say  that  the 
shadow  of  mine  ean  belong  to  any  one  else  ;  or,  if  it  did,  that  I 
might  not  look  at  it  ?" 

She  interrupted  me  with  a  bitter  laugh,  in  sickening  contrast 
with  her  usual  hollow-hearted  loftiness.  • 

"  The  picture  of  your  mother,  and  in  Lord  Clare's  escritoir  I" 
she  exclaimed  ;  "  upon  my  word,  George,  this  impudence  is 
sublime." 

"  It  was  my  mother  I"  I  answered  firmly,  but  with  a  swelling 
heart.  "Mr.  Irving,  you  believe  me." 

I  reached  forth  my  hand  to  the  young  man,  and  he  took  it — 
held  it — pressed  his  cold  lips  upon  it,  and  thus  proclaimed  the 
noble  trust  that  was  in  him,  while  she  looked  on. 

"  Mother  1"  and  the  words  burst  like  fire  through  his  white 


262  BORROWS,     DOUBTS 

lips — "  mother,  I  do  believe  the  child  innocent  as  God's 
angels  !" 

These  words  bereft  me  of  all  strength.  My  limbs  gave  way 
as  if  they  had  been  moulded  from  snow.  I  fell  at  his  feet,  and 
winding  my  arms  about  his  knees,  gave  myself  up  to  a  passion 
of  tears. 

"  George  Irving,  undo  the  coil  of  that  serpent,  spurn  her 
away,  or  henceforth  you  are  no  child  of  mine  1"  burst  on  my 
ears. 

I  saw  that  wicked  glare  of  her  eyes,  the  white  rage  that 
shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  There  was  something  horrid  in 
this  fiendish  rage  in  a  mother,  and  addressed  to  her  only  child. 
I  took  away  my  arms  and  arose, 

"  Madam,  calm  yourself,"  I  said  gently,  for  his  faith  had 
filled  my  soul  with  solemn  peace,  "  I  shall  touch  him  no  more — 
see  him,  probably,  never  again.  You  can  separate  us,  but  I 
know  that  he  believes  me — it  is  enough  I" 

I  left  the  room  without  another  word  or  look,  and  went 
home. 

Two  days  after,  Greenhurst  was  deserted.  Lady  Catherine 
and  her  son,  with  some  of  their  guests,  had  departed  for  the 
Continent.  He  went  without  a  word,  but  had  I  not  given  him 
up  proudly,  there  in  the  presence  of  his  mother  ? 

Days,  weeks,  months  rolled  on,  and  after  this  terrible  excite 
ment  my  outer  life  became  a  dead  calm  ;  my  intellect,  for  once, 
seemed  to  have  lost  its  spring,  and  gave  itself  up  to  dreams. 
For  a  long  time  my  faith  in  Irving  remained  firm  ;  and  though 
we  never  received  a  syllable  from  him,  it  seemed  every  day  as 
if  I  had  obtained  some  confirmation  of  his  love  ;  and  I  solemnly 
believe  that  no  doubt  "would  ever  have  arisen  in  my  mind,  but 
that  the  poison  was  sown  there  by  another. 

Those  who  know  how  sensibly  a  proud  heart  shrinks  from  the 
idea  that  even  a  suspicion  of  crime  can  attach  to  it,  will  not 
think  it  strange  that  I  never  mentioned  the  scene  at  Greenhurst 
to  Turner  or  Maria  ;  nor  the  fact  that  I  had  found  and  recog 
nized  a  picture  of  my  mother. 


AND     CONJECTURES.  263 

When  the  family  left  Greenhurst,  young  Moreton,  his  college 
mate  and  friend,  remained  at  the  old  mansion  with  Mr.  Upham, 
who  had  up  to  this  time  been  the  tutor  of  both.  The  intimacy 
that  existed  between  these  young  men  arose  from  the  peculiar 
relations  that  Moreton  held  toward  the  family.  But  for  the 
will  which  left  Marston  Court,  with  other  property,  to  Lady 
Jane,  who  afterward  became  the  wife  of  Lord  Clare,  this  young 
man  would  have  inherited  everything  that  the  old  London  banker 
possessed,  for  he  was  his  nephew  and  sole  relative.  Thus  he 
was  in  truth  the  natural  heir  of  Marston  Court  and  all  the 
wealth  that  had  devolved  on  the  earl  by  the  sudden  death  of 
his  bride.  Lord  Clare  left  the  country  too  much  afflicted  for 
any  thought  of  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  this  young  man, 
but  he  had  written  to  make  liberal  provision  for  his  support 
and  education,  placing  him  in  all  respects  on  a  level  with  his 
own  nephew  ;  and  there  was  no  just  doubt  that  on  Lord 
Clare's  return  to  England,  a  portion  at  least  of  the  inheritance 
that  had  been  swept  from  his  hands  by  the  fondness  of  an  old 
man  for  his  wife,  would  be  restored  to  him. 

With  this  just  expectation,  Henry  Moreton  remained  ad 
Greenhurst,  with  the  tutor,  who  had  always  been  a  greater 
favorite  with  Lady  Catherine  than  with  the  young  men  them 
selves.  Indeed,  it  was  by  her  arrangement  that  these  two  per 
sons,  so  unequal  in  character,  were  left  at  the  Hurst. 

Cora  and  I  sometimes'  met  young  Moreton  and  his  tutor  in 
our  rambles,  and  occasionally  they  came  for  an  hour  to  the 
parsonage;  but  my  preoccupation  and  a  certain  consciousness 
of  the  shame  that  had  been  put  upon  me  by  his  benefactress, 
forbade  that  degree  of  intimacy  with  Moreton  that  might 
naturally  have  sprung  up  between  young  persons  thrown  so 
much  together,  But  I  hardly  gave  Moreton  thought  enough  to 
comprehend  the  very  noble  and  beautiful  traits  of  character 
which,  with  one  drawback,  were  in  every  way  estimable.  He 
was  very  unlike  Irving,  with  his  prompt  courage,  his  impetuous 
feelings,  and  generous  forgetfulness  of  self.  Sensitive,  and  at 
tunes  almost  timid,  Moreton  possessed  few  of  those  qualities 


264:  BORROWS,     DOUBTS 

that  inspire  enthusiasm  in  a  proud  young  heart  like  mine.  The 
extreme  refinement  and  delicacy  of  his  person  and  features 
sometimes  aroused  my  admiration ;  but  in  everything  he  was  so 
unlike  my  own  idol,  that  I  gave  him  nothing  more  than  a  kindly 
place  in  my  regard.  As  for  Cora,  she  seldom  spoke  to  him. 
Though  cheerful  with  every  one  else  in  his  presence,  she  became 
demure  and  thoughtful,  like  a  bird  with  its  wings  folded. 

But  Mr.  Upham  was  not  a  man  to  awake  measured  feelings 
of  this  kind. 

There  certainly  do  exist  persons-  endowed  with  intuitions  so 
keen  that  they  seem  gifts  of  prophecy,  and  guard  the  soul, 
which  but  for  them  would  be  bruised  and  trampled  under  foot 
by  the  rude  multitude.  Are  these  feelings  the  thoughts  of  our 
guardian  angels,  the  golden  spears  with  which  they  hedge  us 
in  from  harm  ?  I  know  not,  but  it  is  certain  no  evil-minded 
being  ever  came  near  me  that  I  did  not  feel  a  thrill  of  repul 
sion,  certainly  as  light  springs  from  flame. 

True  to  this  inward  monitor,  I  never  really  liked  this  mild, 
self-possessed  tutor.  In  spite  of  his  silky  manners,  my  heart 
always  rose  against  him.  It  certainly  seemed  like  a  prejudice, 
and  I  often  tried  to  reason  it  away.  No  human  being  could 
be  kinder  than  this  man ;  there  was  nothing  noisy  or  unpleasant 
about  him ;  indeed,  there  existed  persons  who  found  his  humility 
and  deferential  silence  more  attractive  than  the  warm-hearted 
sincerity  of  young  Irving;  but  I  was  not  among  them. 

Nothing  but  the  sensitive  dislike  that  I  felt  for  this  man, 
would  have  enabled  me  to  understand  the  stealthy  and  subtle 
advances  which  he  made  to  obtain  my  regard.  But  though  I 
could  not  read  his  motive  for  wishing  to  interest  a  creature 
isolated  like  myself,  there  was  no  mistaking  his  pertinacious 
endeavors.  Still  he  nev.er  spoke  out;  never,  to  use  a  worldly 
term,  committed  himself  in  words,  thus  keeping  my  frank  nature 
at  a  disadvantage.  There  was  no  discouraging  a  man  who 
expressed  himself  only  in  tones,  sighs  and  glances.  But  to  a 
heart  wholly  given  up  to  another,  there  is  nothing  so  repulsive 


AND     CONJECTURES.  265 

as  the  covert  attentions  that  hint  at  love,  which  you  never  have 
the  opportunity  of  receiving  or  crushing  with  a  word. 

At  another  time  I  might  not  hay,e  noticed  Mr.  Upham  so 
closely,  but  in  the  listless  state  which  follows  the  reaction  of 
strong  excitement,  I  was  fit  only  for  observation  and  thought- 
fulness;  besides,  the  fact  that  this  man  had  been  so  long  inti 
mate  with  Irving,  gave  him  a  sort  of  painful  fascination  for  me. 
Heart  and  brain  I  was  a  precocious  girl,  and  the  vigilance  of 
my  observation  might  have  befitted  an  older  and  wiser  person. 
Still  I  could  not  read  him.  Why  did  he  wish  to  interest  me  ? 
Why  was  he  constantly  talking  of  me  to  Turner,  and  putting 
Maria  under  cross-questions  like  a  lawyer  ?  Why,  above  all, 
was  he  so  cold  toward  Cora,  she,  so  strangely  beautiful,  so  full 
of  rustic  coquetry,  that  a  stoic  must  have  yielded  to  her  grace 
ful  beauty  ? 

I  had  the  discernment  to  see  all  that  suggested  these  ques 
tions,  but  lacked  the  power  to  answer  them. 

It  seemed  to  me,  at  times,  that  Cora  felt  and  shared  my  dis 
like;  but  after  the  events  that  followed  Turner's  wedding,  the 
entire  confidence  that  existed  between  us  was,  to  a  degree, 
broken  off.  I  never  made  her  a  confidant  in  those  feelings  that 
filled  my  whole  nature,  and  really  regarded  her  as  too  much  of 
a  child,  notwithstanding  our  years  were  nearly  the  same,  for 
any  curiosity  regarding  her  girlish  fancies  or  prejudices. 

Still,  after  a  time,  I  could  not  fail  to  see  that  a  change  of 
some  kind  had  fallen  upon  her.  More  than  once  I  observed 
that  her  eyes  were  heavy  as  with  crushed  tears,  and  that 
shadows  lay  under  them  sometimes  for  days  together  ;  but  she 
always  burst  into  such  passions  of  mocking  gaiety  when  I  grew 
anxious  about  the  cause,  that  I  was  overwhelmed  by  it, 

As  the  second  year  of  Irving's  absence  crept  on,  my  heart 
grew  heavy  with  anxiety;  I  became  suspicious  of  his  faith, 
restless,  unhappy  beyond  my  powers  of  explaining.  I  can  now 
trace  back  these  feelings  to  looks,  hints,  and  disjointed  ques 
tions,  dropped,  from  time  to  time,  by  Upham,  with  a  point  that 
stung  like  drops  of.  venom,  and  yet  with  a  seeming  carelessness 

12 


266  SORROWS,     DOUBTS 

that  had  all  the  force  of  truth.  But  then  I  suffered  greatly 
without  knowing  from  what  source  the  distrust  and  anguish 
came.  . 

One  thing  is  very  certain,  the  forced  presence  of  this  man,  his 
incessant  attentions,  accompanied  with  so  much  perseverance, 
served  to  keep  my  sweet  Cora  at  a  distance  from  me  that  was 
painful ;  but  I  could  not  force  my  pride  to  ask  an  explanation. 
No  sister  ever  more  truly  loved  another  than  I  loved  her.  There 
was  but  one  thing  on  earth  I  would  not  have  sacrificed  to  her, 
and  that  was  so  much  dearer  than  my  own  soul,  I  could  have 
parted  with  one  easily  as  the  other. 

Thus,  as  I  have  said,  two  years  went  by.  Then  news  came 
that  Lady  Catherine  and  her  son  would  soon  be  at  Greenhurst. 
Mr.  Upham  gave  me  this  intelligence  one  night  when  I  was 
returning  from  the  parsonage,  where  I  had  left  Cora  in  a  state 
of  sadness  that  pained  me,  but  of  which  she  would  give  no 
explanation.  "  He  was  going  that  way  in  order  to  meet  me," 
he  said,  and  turned  back  in  his  usual  quiet  fashion  as  if  to 
escort  me  home.  His  eyes  were  fixed  searchingly  on  my  face 
as  he  proclaimed  his  errand,  and  I  felt  that  he  was  keenly 
reading  my  countenance. 

But  I  had  a  strong  will,  and  though  the  blood  leaped  in  my 
heart  at  the  thought  of  seeing  Irving  again,  it  did  not  reach 
my  cheek  or  disturb  a-  tone  of  my  voice. 

"  They  will  be  welcome,"  I  said  ;  "  the  place  is  but  little 
changed." 

"  You  are  forgiving  as  an  angel,"  he  answered.  "  That  last 
scene  with  Lady  Catherine  would  have  left  any  other  heart  full 
of  bitterness." 

"  And  who  told  you  of  that  scene  ?"  I  questioned  sharply, 
and  with  a  burning  sense  o£  shame. 

"  Who  ?  George  Irving,  of  course.  It  sent  him  abroad  a 
whole  year  before  the  time  allotted  to  him." 

"And  he  told  you  this? 

s  "  Certainly,  why  not  ?     Did  you  suppose  me  merely  Irving's 
tutor  ?"  he  answered,  with  a  strange  smile. 


AND     CONJECTURES.  267 

"  Why,  what  else  are  you  ?"  I  demanded. 

"  His  friend — his  confidant." 

Something  in  his  manner  put  me  upon  my  guard  that  even 
ing,  and  I  was  disinclined  to  continue  the  conversation  ;  but  he 
was  not  a  man  to  be  evaded  in  anything.  He  followed  up  the 
subject  with  pertinacity,  and  every  time  Irving's  name  was  men 
tioned  I  felt  his  eyes  penetrating  to  my  very  thoughts.  As  we 
entered  the  park,  I  was  about  to  turn  down  an  avenue  that 
led  to  my  home,  but  he  laid  one  hand  on  my  arm  and  gently 
detained  me. 

"Zaua,"he  said,  "listen  to  me — for  one  moment  throw  off 
this  haughty  reserve.  It  chills  me — it  is  cruel,  for  you  know 
that  I  love  you — love  you,  Zana,  as  man  never  loved  woman. 
Now  before  our  little  Eden  is  broken  up  by  these  haughty 
Clares — now,  while  I  have  you  all  to  myself,  let  me  say  it  I" 

I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  The  words  he  had  spoken 
seemed  like  sacrilege  ;  for,  to  a  heart  that  really  loves,  there  is 
a  sort  of  profanity  in  expressions  of  passion  from  other  than  the 
true  lips. 

"  Zana — Zana,  you  are  ice — you  are  marble — my  words 
freeze  you-r-this  is  no  answer  to  love  like  mine." 

"  You  have  said  truly,"  I  answered.  "  Ice,  marble,  anything 
hard  and  cold  is  all  the  reply  that  I  can  give — and  it  is  fitting, 
for  you  love  me  no  more  than  I  love  you." 

The  man  turned  white  and  stammered  forth, 

"  You — you  wrong  me.  Without  love  why  should  any  man 
seek  to  make  you  his  wife  ?" 

"True,"  I  answered  stung  by  his  words — "true,  there  is 
something  here  quite  incomprehensible,  but  it  is  not  love." 

He  broke  into  a  passionate  torrent  of  protestations,  wrung 
my  hand  in  his,  and  even  attempted  to  throw  his  arms  around 
me  ;  but  I  retreated  from  him  in  dismay. 

"  You  will  not  believe  me,"  he  said,  standing  in  my  path  pale 
and  breathless.  "  You  will  not  even  believe  that  I  love 
you  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not  believe  it  1" 


268  SOKEOWS,      DOUBTS 

"  Who — who  has  poisoned  your  ear  against  me  ?  Not  that 
canting  priest  ;  not — not " 

"  No  one  has  ever  uttered  a  word  against  you  in  my  presence," 
I  replied. 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  you  are  so  positive — you  may  have  been 
impressed  with  some  evil  belief  against  me." 

"  No,  I  have  never  thought  of  the  matter." 

"  Then  you  are  truly  indifferent  ?" 
.  "  I  am,  indeed  !" 

"  You  have  no  regard  for  my  feeling- — no  gratitude  for  the 
love  that  I  have  lavished  upon  you  so  long.  There  is  a  cause 
for  this,  and  that  cause  is  your  love  for  George  Irving." 

He  looked  at  me  with  malicious  scrutiny,  but  I  had  expected 
this,  and  my  cheek  remained  cool  as  if  he  had  passed  an  ordi 
nary  compliment. 

"  Inscrutable  child,"  he  muttered,  "  will  nothing  reach  you  ?" 

"  You  are  right,"  I  answered,  without  heeding  his  muttered 
comment.  "It  is  my  love  for  George  Irving  that  makes  me 
look  upon  all  that  you  express  as  a  wrong  done  to  him,  a 
mockery  of  the  true  feeling  that  lives  in  my  heart,  as  rich  wine 
fills  a  cup  to  the  brim,  leaving  no  space  for  a  drop  less  pure 
than  itself." 

Oh,  how  my  soul  shrunk  from  the  smile  which  he  turned 
'upon  me. 

"  Can  you,  vain  girl — can  you,  for  a  moment,  think  that  he, 
loves  you? — you  whom  his  uncle  abandons  and  his  mother 
denounces  ?" 

The  blood  burned  in  my  cheeks  and  temples  hotly  enough 
now,  but  I  answered  proudly, 

"My  thoughts  like  my  affections  are  my  own,  I  refuse  to 
share  them." 

He  smiled  again,  derisively. 

"  It  is  this  wild  dream  that  makes  you  so  haughty.  Dream 
on — I  can  wait ! — when  you  awake,  my  homage  may  not  seem 
so  paltry." 

He  left  me  abruptly,  and  for  many  minutes  I  stood  watching 


AND     CONJECTURES. 

his  dusky  form  as  it  wound  slowly  in  and  out  among  the  chest 
nuts.  There  was  something  serpent-like  about  his  progress 
that  made  me  thoughful. 

Why  had  this  man  sought  me?  Not  from  love,  of  that  I  was 
assured.  Was  there  anything  in  my  last  scene  with  Lady  Cathe 
rine,  with  which  he  had  become  acquainted,  to  arouse  feelings 
of  ambition  or  interest  in  a  nature  like  his  ?  If  not,  where  was  I 
to  seek  an  explanation  of  his  strange  love-making  ?  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  for  hitherto  my  pride  had  kept  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  question,  I  asked  myself  plainly  why  the  picture  of  that 
haunting  face — the  face,  which,  without  proof,  I  knew  to  be 
that  of  my  mother — why  it  should  have  been  found  in  Lord 
Clare's  desk  ? 

With  this  question  came  others  that  made  my  heart  quail 
and  my  cheek  burn. ,  Memories  thronged  upon  me — Lady 
Catherine's  words  as  she  urged  Turner's  marriage — the  half 
uttered  sentences  of  George  Irving — the  bitter  dislike  which 
his  mother  evidently  felt  for  me  ;  all  these  thing  crowded  upon 
my  brain  so  close  that  conviction  came  like  lightning  flashes. 
I  was  Lord  Clare's  illegitimate  child.  My  mother — great 
heavens,  how  the  thought  of  that  face  in  all  its  heavenly 
beauty  burned  in  my  brain  !  Amid  sobs  and  tears,  and  a 
bitter,  bitter  sense  of  degradation,  my  soul  drew  a  black  veil 
over  it,  and  turned  away  from  a  remembrance  of  its  loveli 
ness. 

I  could  not  follow  up  the  subject.  Indeed,  Mr.  Upham  was 
overwhelmed  in  the  feelings  that  rushed  upon  me.  I  forgot 
to  question  his  motives — forgot  him — everything  in  the  deso 
lation  of  my  shame. 

I  went  home,  but  asked  no  questions  either  of  Turner  or  his 
wife.  They  could  have  explained  nothing  that  I  did  not  fully 
comprehend,  and  my  soul  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  speaking  out 
its  shame  m  words. 

Now  all  rest  forsook  me.  I  had  a  craving  wish  to  know 
everything- -to  penetrate  into  the  centre  of  my  parents'  secret, 
but  felt  all  the  time  that  it  was  useless,  as  painful  to  inquire. 


270  THE     HAZELNUT     HEDGE. 

The  whole  history  was  locked  up  in  my  own  soul.  I  felt  its 
weight  there,  but  the  struggle  to  drag  it  forth  strained  my 
whole  being  to  no  avail. 

Then  my  conjectures  began,  as  at  first,  to  wander  over  that 
which  was  probable.  Could  George  Irving  continue  to  love 
a  creature  so  disgraced — a  wretched  offshoot  from  his  own 
proud  ancestral  tree  ?  And  if  he  did,  where  was  the  end, 
marriage  ?  No,  no,  my  own  pride  rose  up  in  defence  of  his  I 
Where,  then  ?  Oh,  how  dead  my  heart  lay  as  I  asked  the 
question. 


CHAPTER   XXXYIII. 

THE     HAZE'LNUT     HEDGE. 

IN  a  week  Lady  Catherine  and  her  son  arrived,  but  I  had 
lost  all  desire  to  see  them.  Turner  found  no  difficulty  now 
in  persuading  me  to  keep  in-doors.  But  George  never  sought 
me.  I  knew  that  Greenhurst  rang  with  gaiety  ;  that  Estelle 
Canfield,  with  many  other  fair  patricians,  was  filling  its  stately 
rooms  with  mirth  and  beauty,  but  I  was  forgotten.  It  seemed 
to  me  at  times,  that  my  heart  would  break.  The  roundness 
melted  from  my  limbs  ;  the  bloom  was  slowly  quenching  itself 
on  my  cheeks  ;  my  orphanage  had  never  been  complete  till  then. 

But  Cora  was  left  to  me — the  pet  and  darling  of  my  life. 
I  was  still  the  same  to  her,  and  she  was  more  gentle  and  more 
lovely  than  ever.  To  my  surprise,  the  return  of  company  to 
Greenhurst  made  little  impression  upon  her.  The  girlish  curi-. 
osity  and  excitement  which  jiad  formerly  annoyed  me  seemed 
extinguished  in  her  nature.  Indeed  she  became  rather  more 
sad  than  usual  ;  and  I  often  found  her  sitting  alone,  and  so 
still,  under  the  cypress  tree,  where  her  father  had  leaned  on 
that  funeral  day. 

It  did  not  seem  strange  to  me,  this  quiet  sadness,  thus  har- 


THE     HAZELNUT     HEDGE. 

monizing  with  the  sorrow  that  dashed  all  joy  from  my  own  life. 
At  another  time  I  should  have  remarked  it,  but  .now  it  ap 
peared  natural  as  night  tears  do  to  the  violet. 

To  Mr.  Clarke  I  sometimes  opened  a  leaf  of  my  heart ;  but 
only  to  reveal  the  shadows  that  lay  there,  in  abstract  musings 
and  mournful  questions.  At  such  times  he  soothed  me  with 
his  sweet,  Christian  counsel,  that  left  tears  like  dew  upon  every 
blossom  of  my  nature.  Thus  I  became  day  by  day,  more 
closely  knitted  to  this  good  man  and  his  child  ;  and  the  girlish 
love  that  had  been  so  strong  merged  itself  into  the  still  deeper 
affections  of  my  opening  womanhood.  I  loved  them — how  I 
loved  them  the  reader  will  hereafter  know  ! 

One  day,  I  was  returning  home  about  sunset,  and  alone. 
There  was  a  footpath  that  shortened  the  distance  across  the 
meadows  which  lay  between  the  village  and  Greenhurst,  and 
I  threaded  it  wearily,  as  one  walks  who  has  no  object.  The 
path  led  through  the  hazel  thicket  where  my  arm  had  been 
wounded.  After  clambering  the  wall  I  sat  down  among  the 
bushes,  weary,  and  so  depressed  that  I  longed  to  hide  myself 
in  their  shelter  even  from  the  daylight. 

I  put  back  the  lace  that  flowed  from  the  short  sleeves  of  my 
dress,  and  looked,  through  rushing  tears,  at  the  tiny  white  spot 
which  the  wound  had  left  upon  my  arm.  It  was  scarcely 
larger  than  a  pearl,  and  to  me  infinitely  more  precious,  for  it 
came  from  him.  It  marked  the  reality  of  those  love  words  that 
lay,  even  then,  glowing  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

It  was  all  over.  He  had  gone  his  way  in  the  world.  I — 
yes,  I  must  go  mine  ;  for  to  remain  there  in  my  dear  old  home 
with  him  so  near,  and  yet  so  far  away,  was  killing  me. 

I  sobbod  aloud  ;  it  was  not  often  that  weeping  did  me  much 
good,  but  everything  was  so  still — and  I  grew  so  miserably 
childish  that  the  tears  fell  from  my  eyes  like  rain.  A  thrush 
lighted  on  a  branch  close  by,  and  with  his  pretty  head  turned 
on  one  side,  seemed  regarding  me  with  compassion.  I  thought 
of  the  lark's  nest,  where,  a  child,  I  had  slept  so  close  to  death, 
and  wished,  oh,  how  truly,  that  God  jiad  taken  me  then. 


272  THE     HAZELNTJT     HEDGE. 

While  I  sat  thus  lost  in  sorrow,  a  gush  of  wind  swept 
through  the  thicket,  and  I  heard  some  one  wading  through  the 
tall,  red  clover  tops,  shaking  off  their  sweetness  upon  the  air  I 
breathed. 

I  shrunk  back,  ashamed  of  my  tears,  ashamed  to  be  seen. 
But  the  steps  approached  steadily  towards  the  wall,  and  I  sat 
by  the  path,  breathless,  still  hoping  that  the  hazel  branches 
would  conceal  me. 

But  the  steps  diverged  a  little,  and  the  thicket  was  parted 
just  before  me.  My  breath  came  back  in  a  sob.  I  concealed 
my  eyes  with  both  hands,  and  cowered  back  among  the  bushes. 

He  paused.  I  heard  a  faint  exclamation,  and  then — then 
I  began  to  sob  and  tremble.  He  was  at  my  side  half-stooping, 
half-kneeling;  his  arm  was  around  me.  With  one  hand  he  drew 
down  mine  and  looked  into  my  face. 

"  Zana — Zana  1" 

I  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  JMy  poor  Zana/'  he  said,  "  you  have  suffered — you  look  ill 
— how  is  this  ?  They  told  me  that  you  were  happy." 

"  Yes,  so  happy,"  I  replied,  yielding  myself  for  one  moment 
to  the  clasp  of  his  arm — "  so  happy  that  it  is  killing  me." 

"Killing  you,"  he  said,  laying  one  hand  softly  upon  my 
head,  and  putting  it  back  that  he  might  see  the  face  so 
changed  since  we  met  last.  "  In  solemn  truth,  I  believe  it  is  ; 
how  strangely  you  look,  Zana,  how  much  older — how  full  of 
soul — how  worn  with  feeling  I" 

I  remembered  why  this  change  had  been — who  and  where 
I  was.  What  right  had  he,  George  Irving,  of  Greenhurst, 
with  his  arm  around  the  illegitimate  child  of  his  uncle  ?  No 
wonder  his  proud  mother  despised  me — her  insults  were  natural 
— but  this  tenderness,  these  looks  of  love — this  caressing  arm — 
what  insult  could  she  offer  so  burning  as  that  ? 

The  fire  of  this  thought  flashed  through  my  veins.  I  sprang 
up  and  cast  his  arm  away. 

"  You  have  no  right — I  do  not  belong  to  you — never  can — 
never,  never  1"  I  exclaimed.  "  You  know  it,  and  yet  do  this  1" 


THE      HAZELNUT      HEDGE.  273 

"I  did  not  believe  it  before,  not  wholly,  not  entirely — the 
suspicion  was  too  dreadful,"  he  answered,  turning  white.  "  I 
will  not  believe  it  even  yet,  till  your  lips  utter  it  in  words." 

"Why  should  I?  You  know  that  it  is  true — that  a  barrier 
of  iron  rests  between  your  love  and  mine." 

"It  is  enough  !"  he  answered,  turning  still  more  deathly  pale. 
"  Zana,  it  is  enough — you  have  stung  me  to  the  soul." 

"  I  have  not  imparted  to  you  any  portion  of  my  shame,"  I 
answered  with  bitter  tears. 

He  started  as  if  a  viper  had  stung  him. 

"Your  shame,  Zana! — your  shame!  Speak  out,  girl — if 
another  had  said  that  word  !" 

We  both  started.  He  broke  off  sharply.  Upham  had  crept, 
unseen,  close  to  his  elbow. 

"Ha,  Irving — so  you  have  found  the  truant  in  her  nest! 
Hasn't  she  grown  to  be  a  bird  of  Paradise,  but  sly  as  ever  ; 
aint  you,  Zana  ?" 

I  stood  in  astonishment  gazing  at  him,  without  uttering  a 
word.  This  audacity  took  away  my  breath. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  the  parsonage,"  he  continued,  with 
a  quiet  smile,  addressing  George.  "  My  bird  of  birds  had 
flown,  but  I  left  the  beautiful  Cora  waiting  with  great  impa 
tience." 

Irving  gave  me  a  look  that  made  me  almost  cry  out — turned, 
leaped  the  wall  with  a  single  bound,  and  left  me  alone  with 
that  reptile. 

He  looked  after  George  with  a  smile  that  died  coldly  on  his 
lips  beneath  my  searching  glance. 

"What  is  this  ?"  I  questioned,  "your  manner  has  changed, 
sir.  It  insults — it  offends  me  !" 

"  What,  you  are  angry  because  I  have  driven  away  that  boy 
ish  profligate,"  he  answered  ;  "  the  lover  of  Cora,  the  betrothed 
of  Estelle." 

"  It  is  false,"  I  cried,  full  of  indignation. 

"  Ask  Lady  Catherine  !"  he  replied. 

"  I  will  ask  himself,"  I  answered. 

12* 


274  THE     HAZELNUT     HEDGE. 

"  Then  you  have  promised  another  meeting;  it  will  be  a  good 
excuse.  But  let  me  warn  you,  a  second  private  appointment 
of  this  kind  may  reach  Lady  Catherine.  I  have  but  to  drop  a 
hint  even  now,  and  you  are  driven"  ignominiously  from  the 
estate  ;  while  he — perhaps  you  have  forgotten  that  but  for  the 
bounty  of  his  uncle  and  Lady  Catherine  Irving — he  is  a 
beggar." 

Oh,  how  the  wretch  tortured  me  1  I  felt  every  word  he  spoke 
like  the  touch  of  cold  iron. 

"  Let  me  pass,  I  would  go  home,"  I  said,  faint  with  anger 
and  disgust. 

He  stepped  aside,  smiling  coldly. 

"But  first,"  I  said,  pausing,  "you  spoke  of  Cora,  my  friend, 
my  sister,  and  of  him — this  must  be  explained." 

"  I  have  said  my  say,"  was  his  cold  answer. 

"  Then  I  will  ask  him  1" 

"  Of  course  he  will  confess  all.  It  is  so  natural  to  urge  a 
suit  with  one  lady,  while  you  make  her  the  confidant  of  your 
love  for  another.  Really  your  village  beauties  know  how  to 
deal  with  men  who  have  learned  morality  in  Paris,  and  love- 
making  at  Vienna." 
m  "  But  I  will  tell  Cora  of  this  slander." 

He  smiled. 

"  Is  it  slander  to  say  that  a  pretty  angel  like  Cora  Clark  has 
captivated  a  roving  young  fellow  of  Irving's  taste  ?" 

"  But  it  is  untrue — I  will  question  her." 

"  I  have  a  great  idea  of  unsophisticated  innocence,  village 
simplicity,  and  all  that,  Miss  Zana,  but  really  permit  me  to 
doubt  if  Miss  Cora  Clark  makes  you  the  confidant  of  her  little 
love  affairs." 

"  She  has  none,  she  never ,  had,"  I  exclaimed,  with  jealous 
anger. 

He  laughed  again.  The  sound  stung  me  like  an  arrow.  I 
turned  away,  sprang  over  the  wall,  and  walked  along  the  foot 
path  back  to  the  parsonage.  My  progress  grew  slower  and 
slower  as  I  fell  into  thought,  for  a  remembrance  of  the  change 


THE     HA.ZELNTJT     HEDGE.  275 

in  Cora's  manner  oppressed  me.  I  came  in  sight  of  the  parlor 
window.  The  glow  of  Cora's  golden  hair  shone  through  the 
dusky  green  of  the  ivy  leaves  as  she  leaned  out,  shading  her 
eves  with  one  hand  as  if  to  be  certain  that  she  saw  aright. 
She  drew  back,  and  directly  after  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
some  male  figure  gliding  around  a  corner  of  the  church  rapidly, 
as  if  to  avoid  observation.  The  figure  was  too  slight  for  Mr, 
Clark,  and  at  first  I  strove  to  convince  myself  that  it  might  be 
Upham  himself,  who  had  outwalked  me,  concealed  by  a  hedge 
that  ran  near  and  parallel  with  the  footpath  ;  but  I  cast  the 
suspicion  from  me.  The  coldness  which  had  uniformly  marked 
his  acquaintance  with  my  beautiful  girl  forbade  it. 

I  entered  the  little  parlor,  panting,  but  resolute.  Cora  rose 
to  receive  me,  a  good  deal  flashed,  and  with  a  look  about  the 
eyes  as  if  she  had  been  agitated  and  weeping.  She  did  not 
ask  the  reason  of  my  sudden  return,  but  fixed  her  blue  eyes 
with  a  look  of  affright  on  my  face,  as  if  prepared  for,  and 
dreading  what  I  was  about  to  say. 

At  the  time,  this  did  not  strike  me,  but  in  after  days  I 
remembered  it  well. 

"  Cora,"  I  said,  disarmed  by  the  look  of  trouble  on  her  sweet 
face — "  Cora,  my  sister,  tell  me,  who  was  it  that  just  left  you  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ? — No  one — no  one  has  left  the  cottage. 
You— you  found  me  alone  I" 

"  And  have  you  been  alone  all  the  time  since  I  went  away  ?" 
I  inquired. 

"  I — I — not  quite,  my  father  was  here.  But  why  do  you 
ask  such  questions  ?" 

Her  eyes  filled,  and  her  sweet  lips  began  to  tremble,  as  they 
always  did  when  grieved,  since  she  was  a  little  child. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,  Cora,  was  it  any  one  from  Greenhurst 
that  I  just  saw  going  found  the  church." 

''You  saw  him  then,"  she  said,  turning  pale,  and  sinking  to 
her  chair.  "  Oh,  Zana  1" 

I  too  sunk  upon  a  chair,  and  we  sat  gazing  into  each  other's 
pale  face  till  both  burst  into  tears. 


276  MY    FATHER'S    B.E TURN 


CHAPTER     XXXIX. 


No  human  being  can  comprehend  the  desolation,  the  heart 
sickness,  that  seized  upon  me  after  this  interview  with  Cora. 
Nothing  had  been  explained  between  us.  I  had  looked  in  her 
face,  and  saw  it  bathed  with  tears  and  guilty  blushes,  from 
which  my  very  soul  shrunk  back.  My  love  for  that  girl  was  so 
true,  so  deep — my  love  for  him — it  was  like  uprooting  the  life 
within  me,  the  agony  of  bitter  conviction  that  he  was  trifling 
with  me — with  her  perhaps.  But  the  very  intensity  of  my  sor- 
sow  made  me  calm,  nay,  even  kind  to  her.  I  think  at  that 
moment  she  would  have  confided  in  me  entirely,  had  I  urged  it, 
for  she  was  deeply  moved — but  I  could  not  do  it !  For  worlds 
I  would  not  have  heard  the  details  of  his  miserable  perfidy; 
they  would  have  driven  me  mad. 

My  faith  in  human  goodness,  which  had  hitherto  been  to  me 
like  a  religion,  was  from  this- time  broken  up.  I  was  adrift  on 
the  world,  full  of  doubt,  terror,  and  contempt.  Cora,  George — 
where  could  I  look  for  truth  ?  The  wickedness  of  Lady  Cathe 
rine  seemed  noble  compared  to  theirs. 

I  had  no  other  friends,  save  the  two  kind  hearts  in  my  own 
home,  and.there  I  fled  for  shelter  as  a  wounded  bird  to  his  nest. 

It  is  said  that  there  is  no  real  love  unless  respect  for  its 
object  composes  the  greater  share  ;  but  is  it  a  truth  ?  •  Is  it 
tiie  worthy  and  good  on  whom  our  affections  are  most  lavishly 
bestowed  ?  The  history  of  every-day  life  tells  us  no — the  his 
tory  of  my  own  heart  answers  no.  Amid  all  the  bitter  feelings 
that  tortured  me,  love  for  the  two  beings  that  had  wronged  me 


MY    FATHER'S    RETURN.  277 

most  was  still  strong  in  my  soul,  a  pang  and  curse,  but  vital  a£ 
ever. 

With  all  my  apparent  and  real  frankness,  there  was  a  power 
of  suppression  in  my  nature  that  no  one  would  have  believed. 
With  regard  to  my  own  feelings  I  was  always  reserved  and 
silent,  they  were  too  sacred  for  every-day  handling,  and  nothing 
but  the  inspiration  of  some  generous  impulse,  or  the  idea  that 

I  could  have  sensations  to  be  ashamed  of,  ever  won  me  to  con 
fess  anything  of  that  inner  life  which  was  both  my  heaven  and 
my  torment.     Oh,  what  torment  it  proved  then  ! 

But  I  was  of  a  nature  "to  suffer  and  be  strong."  Self- 
centred  in  my  desperate  anguish  I  went  on  in  life,  giving  out 
no  visible  sign  by  which  those  two  beings  who  loved  me,  Turner 
and  Maria,  could  guess  that  I  had  been  so  deceived. 

It  was  well  that  I  had  this  strength,  that  the  springs  of  life 
within  me  were  both  elastic  and  powerful,  for  the  great  battle 
of  existence  had  but  just  commenced.  I  had  been  aroused  to 
a  knowledge  of  the  feebleness  and  falsehood  of  others  ;  soon  I 
was  to  learn  how  much  of  evil  lay  sleeping  in  my  own  nature. 

One  night  Turner  came  home  earlier  than  usual,  and  in  a 
tumult  of  excitement  that  we  had  seldom  witnessed  in  him 
before. 

He  came  to  my  little  room,  where  I  now  spent  all  the  day. 

"  Zana,  Zana,"  he  said,  drawing  me  toward  him,  "  come 
hither,  I  have  something  to  tell  you — I  have  news." 

"  What  news  ?"  I  inquired,  with  a  pang,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
that  Cora  and  Irving  must  have  something  to  do  with  a  subject 
that  coujd  so  interest  the  old  man.  "I — I  am  not  fond  of 
news,  Turner.  Nothing  good  ever  comes  to  me  now." 

"  God  only  knows,  child,  whether  it  is  for  good  or  for  evil, 
but  Lord  •  Clare  is  in  England  !  On  his  way  even  now  to 
Greenhurst." 

My  heart  swelled.  I  felt  the  blood  leaving  my  lips  ;  my 
hands  grew  cold  as  ice. 

11  Turner,"   I  said,  wringing  his  withered  hand  in  mine — 

II  Turner,  is  Lord  Clare  my  father  ?" 


278 

His  small  eyes  opened  large  and  wide.  The  wrinkles  deep 
ened  on  his  face  like  lines  upon  a  map.  My  question  took  him 
by  surprise. 

"  I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life,  Zana,  to  say  yes  or  no 
with  certainty." 

"  Then  you  cannot  tell  me,"  I  cried,  cruelly  disappointed. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could — if  I  only  could,  all  might  yet  end  well  with 
Jon,  poor  child.  But  there  is  no  proof — I  am  not  certain 
myself.  How  then  will  it  be  in  my  power  to  convince  him  ? 
If  you  could  but  remember.  You  were  six  or  seven  years  old 
when  we  found  you,  Zana,  and  at  that  age,  a  child  has  many 
memories — but  you  had  none." 

"Yes,  one — I  remember  her  face." 

"  But  nothing  more  ?" 

"  No,  nothing.  To  attempt  anything  more  wrenches  all  my 
faculties,  and  brings  forth  shadows  only." 

"  This  is  always  the  answer.  What  can  I  do  ?"  muttered  the 
old  man,  "resemblances  are  no  proof,  and  I  am  not  sure  of 
that.  Zana,  have  you  the  least  idea  how  Lord  Glare  looks  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "for  I  have  seen  his  portrait." 

"There  again,"  muttered  the  old  man — "there  again,  at 
every  turn  I  am  blocked  out.  But  that  other  face,  what  is  ij 
like  ?" 

"  Dark,  sad  ;  great  flashing  eyes  full  of  fire,  but  black  as 
midnight ;  hair  like  the  folds  of  a  storm-cloud  ;  a  mouth — but 
how  can  I  describe  it,  so  full  of  tender  sorrow,  so  tremulous  ? 
Tell  me,  is  this  like  my  mother  ?  Was  she  thus,  or  not  ?" 

"  It  is  too  vague,  I  cannot  tell." 

"  But  I  have  seen  it,  not  flashing  thus,  but  real,  every  fea 
ture  still ;  it  was  only  one  glimpse,  but  I  knew  that  it  was 
her." 

"  Where  did  you  see  this  ?     Long  since  and  living  ?" 

"  No,  it  was  a  picture,  at  Greenhurst  ;  I  took  it  from  an  old 
cabinet  of  black  wood  carved  all  over  and  rough  with  jewels." 

"  Where  is  it  now — that  picture  ?" 

"  Lady  Catherine  has  it — she  snatched  it  from  me." 


MY    FATHER'S    RETURN.  279 

"  But  you  knew  the  face  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  the  face." 

"This  is  something,  but  not  enough,"  said  Turner,  thought 
fully.  "  Still  if  his  heart  speaks  for  us  "— 

I  laid  one  hand  on  my  bosom,  for  it  swelled  with  painful 
force. 

" My  heart  is  speaking  now,"  I  said.  ''If  he  is  my  father, 
God  will  send  an  answer." 

As  I  spoke,  the  sound  of  distant  bells  came  sweeping  through 
the  trees,  and  we  heard  the  faint  murmurs  of  a  shout,  as  if  peo 
ple  at  a  great  distance  were  rejoicing  together/ 

"He  has  come.  It  is  from  the  village,"  said  Turner,  and 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  "  My  boy — my  boy,  God  bless 
him.  Will  you  not  say  God  bless  him,  Zana  ?" 

I  could  not  answer  ;  every  clash  of  the  bells  seemed  to  strike 
against  my  heart.  I  knew  it  was  my  father  that  was  coming  ; 
but  when  Turner  asked  me  to  bless  him,  that  face  came  before 
me,  and  /  could-  not  do  it. 

Turner  left  me,  for  the  state  of  excitement  in  which  those 
bells  had  thrown  him  allowed  of  nothing  but  action.  He  fol 
lowed  no  path,  but  I  saw  him  running  at  full  speed  across  the 
park,  as  if  the  weight  of  twenty,  not  sixty-five  years,  went  with 
him.  Directly,  and  while  the  sunset  was  yet  red  in  the  west,  I 
heard  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  and  the  swell  of  dying 
shouts,  as  if  the  villagers  had  followed  their  lord  up  to  the 
lodge-gate.  Then  all  grew  still,  save  the  faint  sound  of  wheels, 
the  rustle  of  a  thousand  trees,  that  seemed  to  carry  off  the 
shout  amid  the  sighing  of  their  leaves. 

I  could  not  rest,  for  thought  was  pain.  I  wandered  about 
the  house,  and  at  length  went  down  stairs  ,in  search  ot  Maria. 
She  sat  in  the  little  breakfast-room,  surrounded  by  the  twi 
light  ;  and  as  I  entered  softly,  the  sound  of  her  weeping  filled 
the  room. 

I  stole  to  her  side,  and  sitting  down  at  her  feet,  laid  my 
head  on  her  lap,  excited  beyond  endurance,  but  with  no  power 
to  weep. 


280  MY    FATHER'S    RETURN. 

She  passed  her  hand  softly  down  my  hair,  and  sobbed  more 
passionately  than  before. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ?  Everybody  else  seems  happy. 
Only  you  and  Turner  receive  the  Lord  of  Greenhurst  with 
tears,"  I  said. 

"We  parted  from  him  with  tears,"  she  answered,  sobbing 
afresh. 

"  You  knew  him  well  then,  ma  bonne  ?"  I  said,  plunging  into 
the  subject  recklessly  now  that  it  was  commenced. 

"  Knew  him  well  ?"  she  answered  ;  then  breaking  into  Span 
ish,  she  murmured  among  her  tears,  "  too  well — too  well  for  him 
or  for  us." 

She  took  my  face  between  her  hands,  and  gazed  down  upon 
it  with  mournful  tenderness. 

"  My  bird,"  she  murmured,  "  ask  me  no  questions  about  the 
earl — my  heart  is  full  to-night.  It  is  not  you  that  sits  at  my 
feet,  but  another — another.  Oh,  what  became  of  her  ? — what 
became  of  her  ?  More  than  ten  years,  and  we  have  no  answer 
to  give  him." 

"  That  person — she  who  sits  in  my  place  overshadows  me  in 
your  heart — is  it  my  mother  ?"  I  questioned,  in  a  whisper. 

"  The  God  of  heaven  only  knows  !"  she  answered  passionately. 
"  Do  not  question  me,  child,  for  the  sound  of  those  bells  has 
unlocked  sad  memories — I  have  no  control  over  myself — I  shall 
say  forbidden  things.  Hush,  hush,  let  me  listen." 

I  kept  my  head  upon  her  lap,  brooding  in  silence  over  her 
words.  I  could  wait,  but  a  stern  determination  to  know  all,  to 
solve  the  mysteriousness  that  surrounded  me,  filled  my  being,  I 
thirsted  for  entire  knowledge  regarding  myself,  and  resolved  to 
wrench  it  from  its  keepers,  whatever  pain  it  might  bring  or  give. 

But  after  Maria  had  wept  awhile,  she  grew  calm  and  circum 
spect.  I  could  feed  my  craving  with  no  more  of  her  passionate 
outbreaks.  We  sat  together  till  deep  in  the  night,  conversing 
in  abrupt  snatches,  but  I  gathered  nothing  from  what  she  said 
to  confirm  my  suspicion  that  at  least  a  portion  of  my  history 
was  in  her  keeping. 


MY    FATHER'S    RETURN.  281 

Turner  did  not  come  back  that  night,  nor  till  deep  in  the 
next  morning.  When  he  did  appear  it  was  with  a  step  of  lead, 
and^  with  trouble  in  his  heavy  eyes.  Maria  met  him  at  the 
door,  and  a  few  hasty  words  passed  between  them  before  he 
entered. 

As  they  came  in  I  heard  her  say,  as  if  repeating  the  word 
after  him,  "  dying  1  not  that — oh,  not  that  1" 

"  It  has  killed  him  at  last — I  knew  it — I 'foresaw  it  from  the 
first,"  answered  Turner,  bitterly.  "The  fiends— *would  to 
heaven  they  had  all  been  smothered  in  their  holes  before 
he"— 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Maria,  "  not  a  word  against  her.  If  he 
is  dying — what  may  her  fate  have  been  ?" 

"God  forgive  me,  I  was  wrong — but  there  is  a  sight  up 
yonder,  Maria,  that  would  draw  tears  from  marble.  But, 
Zana,  where  is  she  ?" 

"  Has  he  spoken  of  it  ?  Has  he  inquired  ?"  asked  Maria, 
quickly. 

"He  asked  only  one  question — if  she  was  found,,  nothing 
more." 

"  And  you  spoke  of  Zaua  ?" 

"  No,  of  what  use  would  it  be  ?  I  have  no  right  to  torture 
him  with  bare  suspicions  ;  but  the  girl — let  him  see  her — if  his 
heart  does  not  speak  then,  we  never  must." 

"She  will  not  refuse — you  always  judge  rightly,"  was  Maria's 
mild. rejoinder.     "  Must  I  go  with  her  ?" 
"  No,  let  her  come  alone.     Gd,  tell  her." 
I  came  forward  and  put  my  arm  through  that  of  the  old 
man.     He  drew  back,  held  me  at  a  distance  with  both  hands, 
and  pondered  over  every  feature  of  my  face,  as  if  his  life  had 
depended  on  perusing  them  correctly.     At  last  he  drew  me 
gently  toward  him,  and  smoothed  my  hair  with  his  palms. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  woman  now — be  firm  and  still ; 
whatever  you  see,  do  not  give  way." 

"  I  will  not ;  guide,  and  I  shall  follow  steadily." 
"  Lady  Catherine  is  at  Greenhurst,"  he  said. 


282  MY    FATHER'S    RETURN. 

"  I  know  it." 

"  She  forbids  you  to  come  ;  she  threatens  me  if  I  attempt  to 
bring  you  to  Lord  Clare.  Have  you  courage  to  follow,  me 
against  her  orders  ?" 

"  Yes  !" 

"  And  her  son's,  should  he  urge  them  on  me  ?" 

My  words  came  like  lead,  but  I  answered,  "yes,"  to  that 
also. 

"  But  trill  you  do  more  than  that  for  my  sake,  Zana  ?  Will 
you  steal  in  privately  and  avoid  them  all  ?" 

I  could  not  answer  at  first.  The  mere  thought  of  entering 
that  stately  dwelling  was  hateful;  but  to  enter  it  stealthily  like 
the  thief  that  woman  had  called  me,  was  too  much.  Uncon 
sciously  I  recoiled. 

"  Zana,  Lord  Clare  cannot  live  many  days.  If  he  dies  with 
out  seeing  you,  all  is  lost — will  you  come  ?  Will  you  be  guided 
once — only  this  once  by  old  Turner  ?" 

I  remembered  all  that  he  had  done  for  me,  all  his  beautiful 
integrity  of  character,  and  blushed  for  the  hesitation  which 
seemed  like  distrust. 

"I  am  ready  to  follow  you  now,  and  always,"  I  said.  "  Tell 
me  what  to  do,  and  I  will  obey." 

"Thank  you,  child,"  said  the  old  man.  ."  Come  at  once,  in 
the  drSss  you  have  on.  Lady  Catherine  has  gone  out  to  drive 
— if  she  returns  before  we  leave,  have  no  fear,  I  shall  be  with 
you." 

I  threw  a  mantle  over  my  dress,  and  went  out,  keeping  up 
with  Turner,  who  walked  on  rapidly,  and  absorbed  in  thought. 
We  entered  the  back  door  over  the  very  steps  upon  which  the 
old  man  had  found  me  ten  years  ago.  He  seemed  to  remember 
it,  for  as  I  crossed  the  threshold  he  turned  and  reached  forth 
his  hand  as  if  to  help  me  along.  His  heart  was  busy  with 
the  past.  One  could  see  that  very  plainly,  for  he  gave  a  little 
start  as  I  took  his  hand,  and  turned  a  sort  of  apologizing  smile 
upon  me,  and  I  saw  tears  steal  one  by  one  into  his  eyes,  as  he 
pressed  my  hand  and  drew  me  forward.  We  threaded  the  hall, 


MY    FATHER'S    RETURN.  ^  283 

and  mounted  the  massive  oak  staircase  without  encountering 
even  a  servant.  Then  Turner  clasped  my  hand  tighter,  as  if 
to  give  me  courage,  and  led  me  rapidly  through  several  vast 
chambers,  till  we  came  to  a  closed  door  at  which  he  paused. 

"  Step  into  that  window  and  hide  yourself  behind  the  cur 
tains,"  he  whispered. 

I  went  at  once,  and  when  he  saw  the  heavy  crimson  silk 
sweep  over  me,  Turner  knocked  lightly  at  the  door. 

It  was  opened  by  young  Morton,  who  stepped  out  and  spoke 
in  a  whisper. 

"  He  has  been  inquiring  for  you." 

"That  is  well,"  answered  Turner,  "you  can  leave  him  entirely 
now  and  get  some  rest — I  will  take  your  place." 

"Thank  you.  I' have  just  ordered  some  fruit — you  will  find 
it  on  the  tray  yonder,"  said  Morton,  evidently  glad  to  be 
relieved. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  attend  to  it." 

As  he  spoke,  Turner  followed  the  young  man  into  the  next 
room,  watching  him  as  he  walked  down  the  long  perspective  of 
a  neighboring  gallery. 

When  certain  that  he  was  quite  alone,  the  old  man  came  to 
the  window  and  stepped  behind  the  drapery.  He  was  very 
pale,  and  I  saw  by  the  nervous  motion  of  his  hands  that  he  was 
subduing  his  agitation  with  difficulty. 

"  Zana,"  he  whispered,  huskily,  "  I  am  going  in  ;  after  a 
little,  follow  me  with  the  fruit  you  will  find  yonder.  Bring  it 
in,  quietly,  as  if  you  were  one  of  the  people.  Then  obey  my 
directions  as  they  would  ?  Do  you  comprehend  ?" 

"  Perfectly,"  I  whispered,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  but 
resolute  to  act. 

"  Now  God  be  with  us  !"  he  ejaculated,  wringing  my  hand. 

"  Amen  !"  trembled  on  my  lip,  but  I  could  not  speak. 

He  left  me  and  entered  the  chamber.  I  waited  a  moment, 
holding  one  hand  over  my  heart,  which  frightened  me  with  its 
strange  beating.  Then  I  stepped  forth  and  looked  around  the 
room.  It  was  a  sort  of  ante-chamber,  large  and  richly  fur- 


284  ONCE     MORE     AT     GKEENHUR8T. 

nished,  but  somewhat  in  disorder,  as  if  lately  used.  Upon 
a  marble  table  in  one  corner  stood  some  crystal  flasks  ruby 
with  wine,  and  with  them  a  small  silver  basket  full  of  fruit, 
with  a  vase  of  flowers  crowded  close  to  it. 

Even  then  the  rude  way  in  which  these  exquisite  objects  were 
huddled  together  wounded  my  sense  of  the  beautiful ;  and  with 
my  trembling  hands  I  hastily  arranged  the  fruit,  mingled 
snowy  and  golden  flowers  with  the  rich  glow  of  the  cherries, 
and  shaded  the  strawberries  with  cool  green  leaves.  As  I 
gathered  a  handful  of  creamy  white  raspberries  in  the  centre  of 
the  basket  with  trembling  haste,  Turner  opened  the  door  and 
looked  out.  His  face,  so  pale  and  anxious,  startled  me,  and  I 
almost  let  the  basket  fall. 

He  closed  the  door,  and  nerving  myself  I  lifted  the  fruit 
again  and  carried  it  forward.  One  moment's  pause  and  I 
went  in. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

ONCE     MORE      AT     GREENHURST. 

IT  was  a  large  chamber,  full  of  rich,  massive  furniture.  The 
windows  were  all  muffled  with  waves  of  crimson  silk,  and  I 
found  myself  in  the  hazy  twilight  they  created,  dizzy  and 
blinded  by  a  rush  of  emotions  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  me 
to  control.  After  a  little,  the  haze  cleared  from  my  vision, 
and  I  saw  before  me  a  tall  man,  attenuated  almost  to  a  shadow, 
sitting  in  a  great  easy-chair  with  his  eyes  closed,  as  if  asleep. 

I  looked  at  him  with  a  strained  and  eager  gaze.  His  head 
rested  on  a  cushion  of  purple  silk,  and  a  quantity  of  soft,  fair 
locks,  so  lightly  threaded  with  silver,  that,  in  the  rich  twilight 
of  the  room,  all  traces  of  it  were  lost,  lay  scattered  over  it,  with 


ONCE     MORE     AT     GREENHURST.  285 

the  purple  glowing  through.  The  face  was  like  marble,  pure  and 
as  white,  but  with  dusky  shadows  all  around  the  eyes,  and  a 
burning  red  in  the  cheeks  that  made  me  shudder.  A  Turkish 
dressing-gown  of  Damascus  silk,  spotted  with  gold  and  lined 
with  emerald  green,  lay  wrapped  around  his  wasted  figure.  His 
hands  were  folded  in  the  long  Oriental  sleeves,  and  I  could 
see  the  crimson  waves  over  his  chest  rise  and  fall  rapidly  with 
his  sharp  and  frequent  respiration. 

I  stood  beside  him  unnoticed,  for  my  footsteps  had  fallen 
upon  the  richly  piled  carpet  lightly  as  an  autumn  leaf.  The 
basket  shook  in  my  hands,  for  my  limbs  knocked  together,  and 
the  perspiration  started  upon  my  arms  and  forehead.  But  I 
made  no  sound,  forced  back  the  tears  that  struggled  in  my 
heart,  and  stood  waiting  for  what  might  befall. 

Lord  Clare  turned  feebly  on  his  cushion,  and  let  one  pale 
hand  fall  down  from  his  bosom. 

"  Turner,"  he  said,  in  a  faint,  low  voice,  "  did  I  not  ask  for 
something  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord — some  fruit.     It  is  here." 

I  approached.  Lord  Clare  opened  his  eyes — those  wild, 
blue  eyes,  and  turned  them  full  upon  me. 

I  could  no  longer  bear  my  weight,  my  limbs  gave  way,  and  I 
fell  upon  one  knee,  holding  up  the  basket  between  my  shaking 
hands. 

Turner  drew  close  to  my  side,  holding  his  breath  and  trem 
bling. 

Lord  Clare  did  not  touch  the  fruit,  but  fell  slowly  back  on 
the  cushion  with  his  great  burning  eyes  upon  my  face. 

"  Turner,"  he  said  at  last,  sitting  upright  and  speaking  in 
quick  gasps — "  Turner,  what  is  this  ?  Who  is  she  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  we  found  her  on 
the  door-step  years  ago.  Be  tranquil,  Master  Clarence.  If 
she  is  the  one  we  have  sought  for,  there  is  no  proof  but  those 
eyes — that  face." 

Lord  Clare  reached  out  his  arms,  and  tears  smothered  the 
painful  gaze  of  his  eyes. 


286    •       ONCE     MORE     AT     GREENHTJRST. 

"  Aurora,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  such  tenderness  that  my 
tears  followed  it,  "  forgive  me  before  I  die." 

Turner  clasped  his  hands  and  held  them  up  toward  heaven, 
trembling  like  withered  leaves,  while  tears  rolled  silently  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  You  know,  Master  Clarence,  it  cannot  be  herself." 

Lord  Clare  turned  his  eyes  from  me  to  Turner,  then  lifting 
one  pale  hand  up  to  his  forehead,  he  settled  it  over  his  eyes, 
and  directly  great  drops  came  starting  from  between  the  fingers. 
A  feeble  shudder  passed  over  his  frame,  and  he  murmured  plain 
tively,  "  No,  it  is  her  child,  our  child.  But  where  is  she  ?" 

"  I  never  learned,"  answered  Turner,  sadly. 

"  Ask  her,  I  cannot." 

"  It  is  useless,  my  lord,  she  knows  nothing  1" 

"  She  must — she  must — my  child  was  six  years  old.  At  that 
age  children  know  everything,"  he  answered  eagerly,  "and  Zana 
was  very  forward,  my  bright  Zana." 

He  looked  at  me,  till  I  shrunk  from  the  feverish  glow  of  his 
eyes.  At  last  he  spoke,  and  my  very  heart  trembled  beneath 
the  sweet  pathos  of  his  voice. 

"  Zana,  where  is  your  mother  ?  Tell  me,  child  ;  I  cannot  die 
till  she  has  spoken  to  me  again." 

I  bowed  down  my  face,  and  answered  only  with  bitter  sobs. 

"  Is  she  dead  ?  Is  Aurora  dead  that  you  weep,  but  cannot 
speak  ?"  he  questioned,  faintly. 

"  Alas  !  I  do  not  know  !"  was  my  agonized  reply. 
x  'i  My  child — Zana — and  not  know  of  her  mother's  fate  ! 
what  unnatural  thing  is  this  ?"  he  cried,  burying  his  face  in  the 
long  sleeves  of  his  gown.  "  This  child  is  not  my  daughter, 
Turner  ;  Aurora's  child  could  not  have  forgotten  her  mother 
thus." 

I  struggled  with  myself — from  my  innermost  soul  I  called  on 
God  to  help  me — to  give  me  back  the  six'years  of  life  that  had 
been  wrested  from  my  brain.  My  temples  throbbed  ;  my  limbs 
shook  with  the  effort ;  it  seemed  as  if  I  were  going  mad. 

Lord  Clare  lifted  his  face  ;  his  eyes  swam  in  tears  ;  his  pale 


ONCE     MORE     AT     GKEENH1JK8T.  287 

lips  trembled.  Laying  both  hands  on  my  head,  he  spoke  to  me 
again — spoke  so  tenderly  I  thought  my  heart  must  break  before 
he  had  done, 

"  Zana — my  daughter — my  poor,  lost  child,  what  has  come 
over  you  ?  Do  not  be  frightened — do  not  tremble  so.  Look 
up  in  my  face — let  me  see  your  eyes  fully.  Turner,  they  are 
her  eyes,  my  heart  answers  to  them,  oh,  how  mournfully.  Zana, 
I  am  your  father — you  should  know  that,  altered  as  I  am,  for 
men  do  not  change  like  children.  There,  love,  there,  stop  cry 
ing  ;  calm  yourself.  I  have  but  one  wish  on  earth  now,  and 
that  depends  on  you." 

"  On  me  ?"  I  gasped. 

"  On  you,  my  darling.  Listen,  I  call  you  darling,  does  not 
the  old  word  bring  back  some  memory  ?" 

He  looked  beseechingly  in  my  face,  waiting  for  a  reply  that 
I  could  not  give.  My  head  drooped  forward,  bowed  down  with 
the  anguish  of  my  imbecility.  *!  . 

"It  is  sweet — it  thrills  my  heart  to  the  centre/'  I  said, 
mournfully. 

"  And  awakes  some  memory  ?  You  remember  it  as  some 
thing  heard  and  loved,  far,  far  back  in  the  past.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

He  bent  forward,  wound  his  arms  lovingly  around  me,  and, 
drawing  me  upward  to  his  bosom,  kissed  my  forehead. 

"  And  this,"  he  said,  folding  me  to  his  heart  so  close  that  I 
could  feel  every  sharp  pulsation.  "  Is  there  nothing  familiar 
now  ? — nothing  that  reminds  you  of  an  old  stone  balcony,  full 
of  flowers,  and  a  bright  little  thing  leaping  to  her  father's 
bosom  ;  and  she,  that  wronged  woman,  so  darkly  beautiful, 
looking  on  ?  Child,  my  Aurora's  child,  is  there  no  memory 
like  this  in  your  soul  now  ?" 

"  This  tenderness  has  filled  my  heart  with  tears,  I  can  find 
nothing  else  there,"  I  answered,  sadly. 

He  unfolded  his  arms,  and  they  dropped  down,  loose  and 
helpless,  like  broken  willow-branches,  and  the  quick  panting  of 
his  bosom  made  me  shudder  with  a  thought  that  he  was  dying 


288  ONCE     MORE     AT     GREENHURST. 

I  arose,  and  then  he  started  upright  in  his  chair,  and  fixed  his 
flashing  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Is  this  creature  mine  or  not  ?"  he  said — "  Aurora's  daugh 
ter  or  a  mockery  ?  Am  I  accursed  among  the  children  of  the 
earth  for  one  wrong  act  ?  Will  this  mystery  walk  with  me  to 
the  grave  ?  Am  I  a  father,  or  childless  ?  Girl,  answer  me — 
wring  the  truth  from  that  brain  I  Before  God  I  must  know  it, 
or  death  will  not  be  rest.  Your  mother,  Zana — where  is  your 
mother  ?" 

His  voice  rang  sharp  and  clear  through  the  chamber,  filling 
it  like  the  scream  of  a  wounded  bird.  His  eyes  were  wild  ;  his 
cheeks  hueless.  I  cowered  back,  chilled  to  the  soul  by  his  last 
words.  The  room  disappeared — everything  grew  white,  and 
shuddering  with  cold  I  felt,  as  it  were,  snow-drifts  rushing  over 
me,  and  through  their  paralyzing  whiteness  came  the  cry, 

"  Your  mother,  Zana,  where  is  your  mother  ?" 

How  long  this  lasted  I  do  not  know,  but  my  next  remem 
brance  was  of  sitting  upon  the  carpet,  faint,  and  with  a  stunned 
feeling,  as  if  some  one  had  given  me  a  heavy  blow.  A  silver 
basket  lay  upturned  by  my  side,  and  a  mass  of  crimson  fruit, 
matted  with  flowers,  lay  half  among  the  frosted  silver,  half 
upon  the  carpet. 

The  room  was  still  as  death,  save  the  short,  painful  sound  of 
some  one  breathing  near  me.  I  struggled  to  my  feet,  and  sat 
down  in  a  great  easy-chair  which  stood  close  by  me.  Then,  as 
my  sight  cleared,  I  saw  that  a  window  had  been  opened,  that 
the  drapery  was  flung  back  from  a  massive  ebony  bedstead,  and 
upon  the  white  counterpane  I  saw  Lord  Clare  lying  among  the 
folds  of  his  gorgeous  dressing-gown,  pale  and  motionless  as 
marble. 

Turner  stood  over  him,  bathing  his  forehead,  white  almost  as 
the  sick  man. 

I  arose  and  would  have  approached  the  bed,  but  Turner 
waved  me  back,  and  I  left  the  rootn,  sick  to  the  very  heart's 
core. 

I  met  some  persons  in  the  galleries,  but  passed  on  without 


ONCE     MORE     AT     GREENHURST.  289 

noticing  them.  As  I  reached  the  lower  hall,  Lady  Catherine 
Irving  came  in  at  the  front  entrance,  apparently  just  from  her 
carriage. 

"How  is  this?"  she  said,  turning  pale  with  rage.  "Who 
permitted  this  ?  How  came  the  girl  here  ?" 

Her  words  had  no  effect  upon  me  ;  the  miserable  pre-occupa- 
tion  of  my  soul  rendered  them  harmless.  I  went  by  her  without 
answering,  and  left  the  house. 

"  See  that  the  creature  is  never  admitted  again  ;  I  will  dis 
charge  the  servant  who  lets  her  in,"  she  continued,  following  me 
to  the  door. 

I  took  no  heed,  but  remembered  her  words  afterward. 

I  wandered  off  in  the  woods,  for  the  very  thought  of  the 
close  air  of  a  house  maddened  me.  Reflect  I  did  not ;  a  chaos 
of  wild  thoughts  and  wilder  feelings  possessed  me. 

At  last  I  found  myself  on  the  eminence  which  I  have  de 
scribed  more  than  once,  from  which  a  view  of  Marston  Court 
could  be  obtained.  The  strange  man  whom  I  had  met  there, 
years  ago,  came  to  my  mind  ;  and,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  I 
thought  of  him  with  a  sort  of  hope  which  grew  into  a  desire 
for  his  presence. 

I  thought  of  my  father,  for  not  a  doubt  arose  within  me  that 
Lord  Clare  was  my  father — of  the  agonizing  darkness  which 
hung  over  his  death-bed — of  the  inability  which  prevented  me 
sweeping  that  darkness  aside.  What  was  the  mysterious  thread 
which  lay  upon  my  faculties  ?  What  human  power  could  ever 
unloose  it  ? 

I  looked  around  in  anguish  of  heart.  Was  there  no  help  ? 
I  would  pray  to  God,  humble  myself  like  a  little  child  at  his 
feet,  that  he  might  mercifully  enlighten  me.  There  was  hope 
here,  and  I  knelt  down  upon  the  turf,  bowing  my  face  in  silence 
before  God..  The  effort  composed  me;  it  hastened  the  natural 
reaction  which  must  follow  any  intense  excitement,  and  in  my 
motionless  position  I  became  calmer. 


13 


290  MY     STRANGE     VISITOR. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

MY       STRANGE      VISITOR. 

ALL  at  once,  I  felt  a  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder,  and,  starting 
up,  saw  the  strange  man  by  my  side. 

He  was  little  -changed.  The  same  picturesque  combination 
of  rich  colors  soiled  and  rudely  flung  together,  composed  his 
garments  ;  the  same  sharp  glitter  made  me  shrink  from  a  full 
glance  of  his  eyes.  When  he  smiled,  I  saw  that  his  teeth  were 
even  and  white  as  ever. 

"  Zana,  get  up  ;  you  need  me,  and  I  am  here." 

"I  do  need  some  one  ;  but  who  can  help  me  ?"  I  said 
despondingly. 

"  I  can  1" 

"  No,  God  alone  can  give  me  what  I  want  1" 

"  And  what  is  that,  Zana  ?"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  Light,  memory.     I  would  know  who  and  what  I  am  !" 

"  Well,  child,  that  is  easy  1" 

"  To  God,  truly — but  to  him  alone." 

"  But  why  do  you  want  this  knowledge  now  more  than 
formerly  ?"  he  asked. 

"  My  father  is  dying  in  anguish  from  this  want !" 

"  Your  father — and  who  is  he  ?"  was  the  abrupt  question 
with  which  he  answered  this. 

"  I  know,  but  have  not  the  right  to  tell !" 

"  But  how  came  you  by  the  knowledge  ?" 

"My  heart  lay,  for  a  little  time,  against  his,  and  they  under 
stood  each  other.  I  knew  that  the  same  blood  beat  in  both, 
certainly  as  if  an  angel  had  told  me,  I  want  no  other  evidence," 
was  my  prompt  answer. 

"  And  you  crave  this  knowledge  in  proof,  that  it  may  render 
his  death  easy  ?" 


MY     STRANGE     VISITOR.  291 

"Yes!" 

"  And  for  no  other  reason  ?" 

"  That  I  may  know  myself  and  those  who  gave  me  life,  that 
is  all  I" 

"  But  Lord  Clare  is  rich  !"  said  the  man,  fixing  his  keen 
eyes  upon  me.  "  Did  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  I  did  not  mention  Lord 'Clare,"  was  my  answer,  given  in 
astonishment  at  the  reckless  way  in  which  he  handled  my 
secret. 

"  But  you  were  thinking  of  him,  and  that  he  would  have 
money  to  give  a  child  proven  to  be  his  !" 

"  No,  I  never  thought  of  it — never  shall  think  of  it !" 

"  There  is  no  Rommany  in  that,"  he  muttered,  "  the  blood 
does  not  speak  there." 

Then  speaking  louder,  he  addressed  me,  pointing  toward 
Marston  Court. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  fastening  his  wild  eyes  on  my  face,  "  that 
is  a  fine  estate,  and  not  tied  up  like  Greenhurst  to  legal  heirs  ; 
Lord  Clare's  daughter  might  get  that  if  she  had  proof  of  her 
birth  before  the  earl  dies.  Had  this  nothing  to  do  with  your 
anxiety  just  now  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied,  with  a  touch  of  scorn.  "I  do  not  want 
that  estate,  or  any  other." 

"Fool!"  sneered  the  man;  "if  I  believed  you,  the  secret  were 
not  worth  telling  !" 

"  What  secret  ?"  I  inquired,  breathlessly  ;  "  can  you  tell  me 
anything  of  my  mother  ?" 

"  And  if  I  did,  what  then  ?" 

"  I  would  worship  you  1" 

"  Yes,  as  she  did,"  he  answered,  with  a  sort  of  mournful  fierce, 
ness  in  his  eyes  and  voice. 

"  As  who  did  ?"  I  demanded. 

"  Your  mother,  Aurora." 

"  That  was  what  he  called  her." 

"  Who  ?" 

"  It  was  the  name  my  father  used  !" 


292  MY     STRANGE     VISITOR. 

"  Ha  !  the  murderer  !  how  dare  he  ?" 

"  But  you  know  something  of  my  mother  !"  I  said  eagerly  ; 
"tell  it  me!" 

"That  you  may  give  Lord  Clare  the  knowledge  he  thirsts 
for  V 

"Yes!" 

"  You  shall  have  thife  knowledge — he  shall  have  it — and  may 
it-crush  him  down,  down  "- 

"Stay!"  I  cried  out,  seizing  his  uplifted  arm,  "I  will  not 
listen — it  is  my  father  you  curse." 

"  Your  father — I  know  it ;  but  what  was  he  to  her  ? — to 
Aurora  T — what  was  he  to  her  ?  What  was  she  to  him  ?" 

A  flood  of  burning  shame  rushed  over  my  face,  and  my  eyes 
fell  beneath  the  lurid  scorn  of  his. 

"  Can  you  know  this  and  not  hate  the  traitorous  gentile  ?"  he 
said. 

I  covered  my  burning  face,  but  could  not  answer. 

"  Look  up  !  the  fire  of  your  Caloe  blood  is  burning  to  waste  ; 
it  should  hurl  vengeance  on  those  who  have  heaped  shame  on  it." 

"  What,  on  my  father  ?"  I  cried,  struck  with  horror — "  he  is 
dying  !" 

"  And  without  proof  that  yom  are  his  child  ?" 

"  Alas  !  yes." 

"  He  shall  have  it." 

"  Give  it  me  now,  now,"  I  cried,  in  eager  joy. 

"  No  ;  let  him  writhe  a  little  longer — revenge  should  be 
eaten  slowly — you  must  learn  this — the  blow  that  kills  at  once 
makes  a  gourmand  of  the  avenger — he  swallows  all  at  a  mouth 
ful." 

There  was  something  fiendish  in  the  man's  look  as  he  said 
this,  that  made  me  shudder  as  I  faltered  out, 

"You  terrify  me — I  do  not  understand.  Will  you  tell  me 
of  my  mother  ?" 

"  I  will  give  you  the  knowledge  soon," 

"  Oh,  now,  that  it  may  bless  his  last  moments,"  I  pleaded  ; 
u  he  may  not  live  another  hour." 


MY     STRANGE     VISITOR.  293 

"  That  it  may  curse  him,"  shouted  the  man.  "  But  that  I 
am  sure  of  it,  he  might  die  like  a  dog,  in  his  ignorance.  Not 
for  all  those  lands  which  the  secret  shall  bring  you,  child,  would 
I  speak,  only  I  know  how  sweet  my  words  will  be  to  him,"  he 
cried,  pointing  toward  Greenhurst.  "  Choke  back  those  tears, 
little  one  ;  it  is  time  you  were  among  us,  full  time." 

"  But  my  mother — speak  of  her — you  terrify  me." 

"  Yes,  I  forget,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner, 
"  there  is  gentile  blood  in  your  cheeks,  and  that  is  cowardly  ; 
but  what  I  have  to  say  will  fire  it  up  by  and  by,  Zana,"  he 
continued,  with  a  touch  of  feeling,  "you  are  like  your  mother  I" 

"  I  know  it." 

"  How  ?     I  thought — nay,  nay,  you  cannot  remember  her  1" 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  How  and  where  ?" 

"  The  face,  only  the  face,  I  remember  that,  nothing  more  1" 

"  It  was  a  beautiful  face,  Zana." 

"  I  know  it — very  beautiful !" 

His  forehead  grew  heavy  and  dark.  A  look  of  wild  horror 
came  into  his  eyes  that  were  dwelling  upon  me  in  apparent 
wrath. 

Just  then  a  gun  was  fired  near  us,  and  through  the  trees  I 
saw  George  Irving  and  Morton  coming  toward  us. 

"  Hush,  no  outcry,"  whisper^,  the  man,  drawing  me  back  into 
a  thicket.  "  Come,  or  do  you  wish  them  to  see  you  ?" 

"  No,  no — heaven  forbid  1"  I  «ried,  shrinking  under  cover. 

The  man  smiled  grimly. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  said  ;  "  there  'is  no  contamination  here — the 
blood  is  true  to  itself  yet — I  will  leave  you  now  !" 

"  No,  no,  not  till  you  tell  me  of  my  mother,"  I  cried,  wild  with 
the  dread  of  losing  this  clue  to  my  history. 

"Not  here,  it  is  impossible,"  was  his  answer.  "  You  have  that 
black  pony  yet  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  A-nd  are  no  coward  ?  not  afraid  of  the  dark  ?" 

"  No." 


294:  MY      STRANGE     VISITOR. 

"  After  nightfall  come  to  yonder  old  house." 

"  What,  Marston  Court  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will  be  there!" 

"  And  will  you  tell  me  aU  ?" 

"  Yes  !" 

He  darted  from  me  while  speaking,  and  the  next  instant  all 
trace  of  him  was  lost. 

I  must  have  remained  a  long  time  buried  in  the  woods,  but  I 
have  no  remembrance  even  of  my  own  sensations.  So  much 
was  crowded  on  my  brain  that  it  seemed  stolid  to  -all  subjects 
but  the  one  great  wish  to  learn  more.  Up  to  the  time  I  met 
that  strange  being,  who  seemed  so  familiar  and  yet  so  frightful, 
I  had  been  overwhelmed  with  tender  grief.  My  father,  suffer 
ing,  perhaps  dying — my  father  so  lately  found,  filled  every 
thought.  No  doubt  entered  my  mind  that  he  was  my  father; 
for  months  the  conviction  had  gradually  settled  upon  me  ;  but 
when  I  remembered  the  distrust  which  tortured  him,  a  painful 
wish  to  conquer  it — to  sweep  it  away,  possessed  me,  not  for  my 
own  sake — never  for  a  moment  did  I  think  of  any  advantage  it 
might  prove  to  myself — but  that  he  might  be  satisfied  ;  that 
the  cruel  check  that  made  his  tenderness  for  me  a  torture 
might  be  removed. 

But  now  came  other  feelings,  such  as  I  had  never  known  or 
dreamed  of  before.  I  have  related  that  man's  conversation 
word  for  word,  but  its  effect  no  power  of  mine  can  reveal. 
Instead  of  that  tender,  holy  thirst  for  knowledge  that  might 
give  my  father  peace,  a  .fierce  curiosity  took  possession  of  my 
soul.  I  felt  not  like  a  child,  but  an  avenger.  I  would  know 
myself  that  night  ;  mysteries  should  henceforth  cease  to  surround 
me.  The  blackness  would  be  swept  from  my  brain,  and  by  that 
man — that  man.  Was  he  .man  or  demon  ?  Could  anything 
human,  with  so  little  effort,  have  filled  my  bosom  with  bitter 
ness  ?  I  was  to  meet  him  that  night,  meet  him  in  secrecy  and 
darkness,  in  a  strange  place — I,  a  young  girl,  not  more  than 
seventeen.  It  did  not  frighten  me  ;  I  panted  for  the  hour  to 
come,  though  the  very  thought  thrilled  me  through  and  through 


MY     STRANGE     VISITOR.  295 

with  the  idea  of  a  sacrilege  performed  with  a  demon.  My  heart 
would  now  and  then  recoil  from  the  thought,  not  in  fear,  but  as 
from  something  unholy  that  I  had  resolved  to  do. 

This  thought  could  not  deter  me  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  im 
parted  ferocious  strength  to  my  resolution.  I  was  determined 
to  pluck  and  eat  the  fruit  of  knowledge,  though  it  poisoned  rne. 
Toward  evening,  when  I  saw  the  first  beams  of  sunset  shooting 
like  golden  lances  through  the  chestnut  boughs  and  broken 
against  their  stately  boles,  I  awoke  from  this  chaos  of  thought 
and  went  home. 

As  I  mounted  the  stairs  to  my  room,  Maria  called  after  me, 
begging  that  I  would  come  down  and  eat  something  ;  but  I 
hurried  on,  closed  the  door  of  my  chamber,  and  bolted  it  with 
out  answering  a  word.  The  very  idea  of  seeing  any  one  that 
night  was  hateful.  She  came  softly  up  the  stairs  and  knocked 
a  long  time,  telling  me  that  Turner  had  not  been  at  home  all 
day,  and  that  she  was  so  anxious  about  us  both.  I  took  no 
heed,  but  sat  down  by  a  window,  looking  with  fierce  impatience 
on  the  west. 

A  great  embankment  of  clouds,  black  as  chaos,  rolled  up 
from  where  the  sun  had  been,  sweeping  all  its  glowing  gold  and 
crimson  up  through  their  ebon  outskirts,  where  it  burned  and 
quivered  in  folds  and  fringes  of  fiery  brightness.  It  was  a  beau 
tiful  sight,  but  lurid  and  wild,  covering  the  earth  with  uncouth 
shadows,  and  filling  the  woods  with  a  pale  glare  that  to  me 
seemed  demoniac. 

It  answered  well  to  the  fierce  impatience  gnawing  at  my 
heart  1  Tented  by  that  dark  cloud,  I  should  go  forth  on  my 
errand  with  firmness.  The  more  dreary  my  road  became,  the 
better  I  should  like  it. 

When  the  cloud  had  spread  and  blackened  over  the  whole 
horizon,  I  started  up  and  put  on  my  dress  of  dark  cloth  and  a 
broad-leaved  beaver  hat,  which  I  tied  firmly  on  my  head  with  a 
scarlet  silk  handkerchief,  passed  over  the  crown.  I  searched 
for  no  gloves,  but  went  out,  darting  like  a  shadow  through  the 
hall,  that  Maria  might  not  detect  me. 


296  MY      STRANGE     VISITOR. 

I  stopped  by  a  laburnum  tree  and  broke  off  a  shoot,  stripping 
the  leaves  away  with  my  hand,  for  I  had  no  time  to  search  for 
my  little  gold  and  agate-headed  whip  then.  Jupiter  was  in  his 
stall.  I  girded  on  his  saddle,  and  buckled  the  throat-latch  of 
his  bridle  so  tightly,  that  he  rose  back,  shaking  off  my  hold. 
At  another  time  I  might  have  regretted  this  impetuous  haste, 
but  now  I  gave  Jupiter  a  blow  over  the  head  with  my  whip, 
that  made  him  whimper  like  a  child. 

I  took  no  notice,  but  led  him  out,  and  from  the  door-sill, 
which  was  somewhat  lifted  from  the  ground,  sprang  to  the 
saddle.  He  hung  back  when  I  attempted  to  move,  but  I  struck 
him  smartly  over  the  ears  and  he  walked  on,  but  sideling  and 
plunging  with  great  discontent.  I  suppose  the  dense  clouds  and 
the  close  atmosphere  terrified  him  ;  but  to  me  their  sluggish 
grandeur  was  full  of  excitement. 

After  we  had  cleared  the  woods,  my  old  pony  became  more 
tractable.  Very  soon  his  speed  answered  to  my  sharp  impa 
tience,  and  we  dashed  on  through  the  lurid  twilight  with  spec 
tre-like  velocity.  As  we  neared  Marston  Court,  the  darkness 
settled  thick  and  heavy  over  everything.  We  could  hardly  dis 
tinguish  the  turrets  and  pointed  towers  from  the  black  sky  that 
they  seemed  to  loom  against.  The  road  became  ascending  and 
broken.  More  than  once  Jupiter  stumbled  over  the  loose 
boulders  that  had  rolled  down  the  banks  into  the  road. 

As  we  drew  near  the  building  the  trees  closed  in  upon  us. 
Their  gnarled  branches  hung  low,  and  vines  now  and  then 
trailed  clown,  almost  sweeping  me  from  the  saddle.  The  at 
mosphere  was  heavy  and  still  as  death  ;  not  a  leaf  stirred  ;  no 
sound  but  the  tramp  of  Jupiter  reached  us  from  any  quarter. 
My  heart  grew  heavy.  I  would  have  given  the  world  for  a 
gush  of  air  or  a  gleam  of  starlight,  everything  around  was  so 
terribly  black. 

Still,  I  urged  Jupiter  on,  following  the  deviations  of  a  car 
riage-road  half  choked  up.  We  passed  by  a  pile  of  something 
that  seemed  denser  and  closer  than  the  great  trees,  which 


MY      STRANGE     VISITOR.  297 

slowly  assumed  the  outline  of  a  building  overrun  with  foliage, 
and  this  I  took  for  a  ruined  lodge. 

After  passing  it,  we  found  ourselves  tangled  up  in  the  luxu 
rious  growth  of  some  pleasure-ground  run  to  waste;  for  long 
trailing  branches  swept  across  my  face,  and  from  the  perfume, 
which  rose  heavy  and  sickening  on  the  close  air,  I  knew  that  Ju 
piter  was  treading  flowers  to  death  every  moment  with  his  hoofs. 

At  last,  we  came  close  to  the  building.  All  around  the  base 
was  matted  and  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  straggling  bcauches 
of  ornamental  trees.  t  I  checked  Jupiter,  hoping  to  detect  some 
light  or  signal  to  guide  me  on. 

The  outline  of  a  vast  building  alone  met  my  search.  It  might 
have  been  a  heap  of  rocks  or  the  spur  of  a  mountain,  for  any 
idea  that  I  could  obtain  of  its  architecture  ;  but  its  blackness 
and  size  disheartened  me.  How  was  I  to  search,  in  a  pile  like 
that,  for  the  man  I  had  come  to  meet  ?  As  I  sat  upon  Jupiter 
looking  wistfully  upward,  the  clouds  broke  above  and  began  to 
quiver,  and  from  the  depths  rushed 'out  a  flash,  followed  by  a 
broad,  lurid  sheet  of  lightning. 

There,  for  the  first  time,  and  a  single  moment,  I  saw  Mars- 
ton  Court,  its  gables,  its  stone  balconies,  heavy  with  sculpture, 
its  facade  flanked  with  towers  that  loomed  grimly  over  the 
broad  steps  and  massive  granite  balustrades  that  wound  up 
from  where  we  stood  to  the  front  door. 

In  my  whole  life  I  never  witnessed  a  scene  more  imposing. 
A  glimpse,  and  all  was  black  again.  The  flash  had  given  me 
one  view  of  the  mansion,  nothing  more.  I  was  impressed 
painfully  by  its  vastness.  How  could  I  force  an  entrance  ? — 
how  make  way  through  the  vast  interior  when  that  was  ob 
tained  ? 

It  seemed  a  hopeless  effort,  but  my  determination  was  strong 
as  ever; -so  springing  to  the  ground,  I  felt  my  way  to  the 
stone  balustrade  and  tied  Jupiter.  Then  guiding  myself  by  the 
carved  stone,  I  mounted  one  flight  of  the  steps  thut  curved  like 
the  two  horns  of  a  crescent  from  the  great  oaken  doors  that 
divided  them  upon  the  arch. 

13* 


298  MY      STRANGE     VISITOR. 

I  started,  and  a  shriek  burst  from  me.  Upon  my  hand, 
which  lay  upon  the  balustrade,  another  fell.  When  I  shrieked 
it  grasped  my  fingers  like  iron,  and  a  voice  that  I  knew,  said 
in  that  language — the  language  I  had  never  spoken,  but  could 
understand — "  hush.  Who  taught  you  to  fear  ?" 

"You  came  upon  me  so  abruptly,  so  still!"  I  whispered, 
shuddering  as  his  breath  floated  across  my  lips. 

"  Speak  in  your  own  language — speak  Rommany,"  he  said, 
in  the  same  tongue. 

"  I  cannot,"  was  my  half  timid  answer. 

"  Try  !" 

The  command  was  imperative.  I  made  an  effort  to  answer 
in  his  own  mysterious  tongue.  To  my  surprise  the  words  sylla 
bled  themselves  rudely  on  my  trembling  lips  ;  he  comprehended 
me. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me  ?"  I  had  said. 

He  grasped  my  hand  till  the  pain  made  me  cry  out. 

"It  is  there — the  true  fire— old  Papita  kindled  it  in  the 
soul  of  her  great-grandchild — the  mystery  is  not  broken — the 
sorcery  still  works — queen  of  our  people,  speak  again,"  he 
cried,  with  an  outburst  of  fiery  enthusiasm,  more  impressive 
from  the  hushed  tones  in  which  he  spoke. 

I  felt  like  one  possessed.  By  what  power  did  my  tongue 
form  that  language  ? — what  was  it  ?  All  at  once,  while  he 
waited  for  me  to  speak,  I  began  to  shiver  and  burst  into  tears. 
He  tossed  my  hand  away  with  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

"  Bah  !  you  are  only  a  half-blood  after  all,  the  Caloe  is 
poisoned  on  your  tongue." 

I  checked  the  tears  that  so  offended  him,  and  moved  breath 
lessly  forward,  relieved  by  the  gesture  which  had  freed  me 
from  his  hand. 

When  we  reached  the  broad,  stone  platform  that  clasped  the 
two  staircases  in  one,  he  took  hold  of  my  hand  again.  That 
moment  another  flash  of  lightning  leaped  from  the  clouds, 
sheeting  us,  the  building  and  all  its  neglected  grounds  in  a 
glare  of  bluish  light. 


MY     STRANGE     VISITOR.  299 

It  blinded  me  for  an  instant,  then  I  saw  the  man's  face 
clearly,  bending  over  me  as  I  cowered  to  the  stones.  The 
lightning  had  no  effect  upon  me  like  the  unearthly  glow  of 
those  eyes.  Since  then  I  have  seen  birds  fascinated  by  the 
undulating  movements  of  a  serpent,  and  they  always  brought 
back  a  shuddering  remembrance  of  that  hour. 

"  Up,"  he  said,  grasping  my  arm,  and  lifting  me  to  his  side, 
"  half  the  true  blood  is  stagnant  still.  We  will  set  it  on  fire." 

He  placed  one  heavy  foot  against  a  leaf  of  the  oaken  door, 
and  it  fell  open  with  a  clang  that  resounded  frightfully  from 
the  deep,  empty  hall.  Again  the  lightning  blazed  upon  the 
floor,  tessellated  with  blocks  of  black  and  white  marble,  and 
suits  of  antique  armor,  with  shields  and  firearms,  that  hung 
upon  the  wall. 

"It  is  a  fearful  night,"  I  said,  looking  wildly  at  my  com 
panion. 

"  Gitanilla  1"  he  said,  turning  upon  me  with  folded  arms,  and 
a  fierce  gathering  of  the  brow,  "  I  have  seen  a  morning  when 
the  sunlight  lay  rosy  among  the  snow-peaks — when  the  earth 
seemed  covered  with  sifted  pearls — when  every  breath  poured 
health  aud  vigor  into  the  frame  ;  I  have  seen  such  a  morning 
more  fearful  a  thousand  times  than  this  1  Come  with  me  I" 

"What  for? — where?"  I  demanded,  thrilled  and  astonished 
by  the  glowing  words,  wj^ch  I  must  ever  fail  to  give  in 
English. 

"  That  you  may  hate  the  sunshine  and  love  the  storm  as  I 
do — that  whiteness  may  make  you  shudder — and  nothing  but 
black  midnight  seem  beautiful.  Come  with  me  1" 

"  Are  you  possessed  ?  Would  you  possess  me  with  some 
evil  thing?"  I  said,  terribly  excited.  "Would  you  fill  my 
veins  with  gall,  my  soul  with  hate  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  through  his  shut  teeth,  leading  me 
along  the  marble  floor. 

I  shuddered,  remembering  what  I  had  been  only  that  morn 
ing,  and  the  fearful  sensations  that  possessed  me  then.  Was  it 
a  fiend  that  I  was  following  ? 


300  MY     8TEANGE     VISITOR. 

"  Oh,  I  feel  the  bitterness,  the  soul-blight  even  now.  Un 
clasp  my  hand,"  I  shrieked. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?"  he  retorted,  with  a  sneer. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid." 

He  dropped  my  hand. 

"  Go,  you  are  not  worthy  to  learn  anything  of  your  mother 
— go,  such  knowledge  is  not  for  cowards." 

"My  mother/7  I  cried,  "  oh,  I  had  forgotten.  Yes,  tell  me 
of  her — I  will  follow  anywhere,  only  tell  me." 

"  Nay,  I  will  tell  you  everything — come  1" 

He  drew  me  rapidly  forward,  threading  the  darkness  like  a 
night  bird.  We  mounted  steps  winding  upward  till  I  was  sick 
and  dizzy.  At  last  he  passed  into  what  seemed  to  me  a  small 
circular  room,  high  in  one  of  the  towers. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  pressing  a  hand  upon  my  shoulder  till  I 
sunk  into  a  seat  that  yielded  to  my  weight.  Sit  down  and 
keep  still,  we  are  alone,  high  above  the  earth  ;  the  stars,  which 
those  of  your  blood  should  read  like  a  parchment,  are  all  hid 
den.  It  has  a  bad  look  for  the  future,  but  this  is  the  appointed 
hour." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  be  leaning  from  a  nar 
row  window  interrogating  the  darkness.  He  turned  abruptly 
and  said, 

"  You  saw  Lord  Clare,  this  morning  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  is  dying  ?" 

"  Alas  1  I  fear  so." 

"  How  many  days  first  ?" 

"  What  I"  I  exclaimed,  shocked  by  the  coldness  with  which 
he  questioned  me. 

"  How  many  days  at  the  most  will  he  live  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  ;  God  forbid  that  I  should  evei*  guess." 

"  Would  you  save  his  life  ?" 

u  Would  I  ? — would  I  keep  the  breath  in  my  own  bosom  ?" 

"  Then  you  wish  him  to  live  ?" 

;*  Wish  it,  yes — heavtn  only  knows  how. much  !" 


VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS.        301 

"  Renegade  1" 

"  What  r 

"  Nay,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  change  from  ferocity  to  the 
most  child-liky  tenderness,  "let  her  know  all — how  can  she 
judge  r 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS. 

CHALECO  came  close  to  me  and  laid  one  hand  softly  on  my 
head. 

"  Be  tranquil — be  tranquil,"  he  murmured,  smoothing  my 
hair  from  time  to  time. 

A  soft  languor  stole  over  me.  I  sunk  slowly  down  upon 
what  seemed  to  be  a  couch,  and  like  two  rose-leaves  heavy  with 
fragrance,  my  eyelids  closed  so  softly  that  I  felt  a  thrill  as  the 
lashes  fell  upon  my  cheek. 

He  kept  one  hand  upon  my  head  awhile,  then  moved  it 
gently  across  my  forehead  and  over  my  eyes.  I  felt  a  delicious 
and  almost  imperceptible  current  of  air  flowing  coolly  over  my 
bosom  and  down  my  arms.  Then  the  air  was  agitated,  as  if  a 
group  of  angels  were  fanning  me  with  their  wings  ;  the  lids  fell 
heavier  still  over  my  slumberous  eyes  ;  my  limbs  grew  rigid, 
but  with  a  sensation  of  exquisite  repose.  It  began  to  lighten. 
I  knew  that  fiery  gleams  were  breaking  and  sparkling  all 
around  me.  Then  followed  peal  after  peal  of  thunder  making 
the  tower  rock,  and  upheaving,  as  it  seemed,  the  very  founda 
tions  of  the  building. 

I  was  conscious  of  all  this,  but  it  did  not  disturb  the  languid 
repose  into  which  I  had  fallen.  The  dawning  consciousness  of 
two  lives — two  entire  beings  came  sweetly  upon  my  soul.  I 
saw  my  old  self  fading  away  j  I  was  alone  in  the  universe  with 


302        VISIONS      AND     RETROSPECTIONS. 

that  man  ;  the  whole  past  or  present,  for  the  time,  held  noth 
ing  but  him  and  me.  Then  followed  a  blank  like  that  which 
fills  the  first  year  of  infancy,  dreamy  and  quiet. 

Pang  after  pang  went  through  me  after  that,  each  sweeping 
the  shadows  from  my  brain  ;  and  I  saw  a  young  girl,  mature 
in  her  dark  bright  beauty,  but  almost  a  child  still,  holding  an 
infant  in  her  lap.  The  little  one  was  like  its  mother,  the  same 
eyes,  the  same  rich  complexion.  I  knew  the  mother  well,  and 
the  child.  My  own  soul,  full  of  innocent  love,  lay  in  the 
bosom  of  that  child. 

I  looked  around.  The  two  were  in  an  old  farm-house,  among 
hills  covered  with  purple  heath ;  sheep  grazed  along  the  upland 
slopes  ;  and  cattle  ranged  the  valleys.  Men  in  short  plaid 
garments  and  flat  bonnets  watched  the  sheep  ;  and  the  young 
mother  carried  her  child  to  the  window,  that  it  might  see  the 
lambs  play  as  the  shepherds  drove  them  to  the  fold. 

While  the  mother  stood  there  with  her  child,  a  stout  farmer 
came  to  the  window,  and  taking  the  little  one  from  her  arms 
began  to  dance  it  up  and  down  in  the  bright  air,  till  the  silken 
curls  blew  all  over  its  face.  The  mother  laughed,  and  so  did 
the  child,  gleefully,  like  a  little  bird.  Then  came  a  woman 
round  an  angle  of  the  house  ;  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  leav 
ing  her  round,  well-shaped  arms  bare  to  the  elbow.  She  took 
the  child  from  her  good  man,  and  smoothing  its  curls  with  her 
plump  fingers,  covered  it  with  ftisses. 

A  shot  from  the  hill-side  made  the  whole  group  start  joyfully 
forward.  The  old  man  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked  eagerly  to* 
ward  the  mountain.  The  young  mother  seized  her  child  and 
ran  forward,  her  eyes  sparkling,  and  her  cheeks  in  a  glow, 

Along  the  shore  of  a  little  lake  that  lay  in  the  lap  of  those 
hills,  came  a  young  man  ip  hunter's  dress.  A  gun,  which  he 
had  just  discharged,  was  thrown  back  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
as  he  saw  the  young  mother  coming  toward  him,  he  flung  out  a 
white  handkerchief,  smiling  a  happy  welcome. 

I  knew  the  young  man's  face  well,  and  my  soul,  which  was  iu 
the  child's  bosom,  sang  for  joy  as  he  cain§  up. 


V  I  8  I  O^N  8     AND     RETROSPECTIONS.         303 

A  moment  of  obscurity,  of  mistiness  and  shadows — then  ap 
peared  before  me  the  cottage  in  Greenhurst,  its  gardens,  its  dim 
old  wilderness  of  trees  ;  and  now  my  soul  leaped  from  event  to 
event,  scaling  over  all  that  might  have  been  repose,  and  seizing 
upon  the  rugged  points  of  that  human  history  like  a  vampire. 

Again  and  again  I  saw  that  young  mother,  so  beautiful,  so 
sad,  that  every  fibre  of  my  being  ached  with  sympathy.  It 
was  not  her  face  or  her  form  alone  that  I  saw,  but  all  the  doubt, 
the  anguish,  the  humiliation  of  her  wild,  proud  nature  tortured 
my  own  being.  I  not  only  saw  her,  but  felt  all  the  changes  of 
her  soul  writing  themselves  on  my  own  intelligence. 

Why  was  it  that  in  that  wonderful  sleep  or  trance — I  know 
not  to  this  day  what  it  was — but  how  did  it  happen  that  I 
could  read  every  thought  and  feeling  in  my  mother's  heart,  but 
only  the  actions  of  my  father  ?  Did  that  weird  being  so  will 
it,  that  all  my  burning  nature  should  pour  itself  forth  in  sym 
pathy  for  the  wronged  woman,  and  harden  into  iron  toward  the 
man  ?  I  saw  him  too,  pale,  struggling  with  indecisions,  that 
ended  in  more  than  mental  torture,  but  this  awoke  no  sympathy 
in  my  bosom,  none,  none.  Then  came  another  upon  my  vision, 
a  proud,  noble  woman,  always  clad  in  black,  that  hovered 
around  the  old  dwelling  where  my  father  rested,  like  a  raven. 
She  was  my  mother's  rival  ;  I  felt  it  the  moment  her  black 
shadow  fell  upon  my  memory.  I  saw  her  in  a  dim  old  room, 
and  he  was  with  her.  Both  were  pale  and  in  trouble  ;  she  sat 
watching  him  through  her  tears,  and  those  tears  shook  his  man 
hood  till  he  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  A  child,  dark-eyed, 
and  with  a  look  of  intelligence  beyond  her  years,  sat  crouching 
in  a  corner,  with  her  great  black  eyes  following  every  move 
ment — I  knew  that  child  well.  It  was*  the  infant  who  had 
shouted  its  joyous  greeting  to  the  young  huntsman.  Its  blood 
was  beating  then  in  my  own  veins. 

Again  I  saw  the  woman,  beneath  a  clump  of  gnarled  old  oaks. 
She  lay  prone  upon  the  earth,  white  as  death,  stiffened  like  a 
corpse  ;  a  horse  dripping  with  sweat  stood  cowering  on  the 
other  side  of  a  chasm  that  yawned  between  him  and  the  lady. 


304        VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS. 

There  was  that  child  again,  peering  out  from  a  thicket,  with  her 
wild  eyes  gleaming  with  ferocious  joy,  as  if  she  gloried  in  the 
stillness  that  lay  like  death  upon  the  woman. 

Then  a  huntsman  rode  up,  and  I  saw  the  white  face  of  the 
woman  on  his  bosom.  He  kissed  the  face — he  wept  over  it — 
he  laid  her  on  the  grass,  and  looked  piteously  around  for 
help. 

Then  the  child  sprang  up  like  a  tiger-cub  from  the  thicket; 
with  a  bound  she  stood  beside  the  two ;  her  little  form  dilating, 
her  whole  attitude  full  of  wrath.  Words  were  spoken,  between 
the  man  and  the  child,  bitter,  harsh  words.  Then  the  woman 
moved  faintly ;  the  child  saw  it ;  her  tiny  hands  were  clenched  ; 
her  teeth  locked  together,  and  lifting  her  foot,  she  struck  it 
fiercely  down  upon  the  lady's  bosom. 

A  blow  from  the  man  dashed  her  to  the  ground  ;  confusion 
followed,  flashes  as  of  fire  filled  my  vision.  Then  I  saw  the  child 
wandering  through  the  tall  trees  alone,  her  little  features 
locked,  her  arms  tightly  folded. 

It  grew  dark,  so  dark  that  under  the  trees  the  young  mother, 
who  stood  by  her  child,  could  not  see  the  fierce  paleness  of  her 
face.  Then  I  saw  them  both  wandering  like  thieves  along  the 
vast  mansion  house.  They  were  separated.  The  mother  went 
into  numberless  chambers  searching  for  some  one,  and  holding 
her  breath.  At  one  moment  she  stood  over  a  bed,  on  which 
the  strange  woman  slept  ;  then  I  was  sure  that  the  child  was 
hers  by  the  deadly  blackness  of  her  eyes  as  they  fell  on  the 
noble  sleeper.  She  passed  out  with  one  hand  firmly  clenched, 
though  it  held  nothing,  and  wandered  into  the  darkness  again. 

Once  more  she  stood  in  the  light,  dim  and  faint,  for  the  lamp 
that  gave  it  was  hidden  under  an  alabaster  shade,  and  sent 
forth  only  a  few  pale  rays  like  moonbeams.  I  saw  little  that 
surrounded  her,  for  my  soul  was  searching  the  great  agony  of 
heart  with  which  she  stood  beside  that  man.  He  was  not  in 
bed,  but  wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown  of  some  rich  Oriental 
silk,  lay  upon  a  couch  with  his  eyes  closed  and  smiling. 

She  held  her  breath,  and  the  last  tender  love  that  ever  beat 


VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS.        305 

in  her  heart  swelled  up  from  its  depths  as  she  bent  down  and 
gathered  the  smile  with  her  lips. 

He  started.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  ;  she  locked  his  hand  in 
hers;  her  black  tresses  drooped  over  him;  oh,  with  what  agony 
pleaded  for  a  return  of  the  love  that  had  been  the  pulse  of  her 
life,  the  breath  on  her  lips. 

He  arose  and  shook  her  off — with  a  mighty  effort  he  steeled 
his  heart  and  shook  her  off,  the  mother  of  his  child,  the  wife  of 
his  bosom.  She  stood  upright,  pale  and  transfigured.  For  one 
whole  minute  she  remained  gazing  on  him  speechless,  and  so 
still  that  the  beating  of  his  heart  sounded  clear  and  distinct  in 
the  room.  She  turned  and  glided  into  the  darkness  again,  and 
she  disappeared  with  her  child,  who  waited  for  her  there. 

Then  followed  a  panorama  of  scenery,  rivers,  mountains,  arid 
seas,  over  which  the  mother  wandered,  holding  her  child  by  the 
hand.  At  last  she  stood  in  sight  of  an  ancient  city,  rich  with 
Moorish  relics,  but  as  I  turned  to  gaze  on  them  a  crowd  of - 
fierce  human  beings  surrounded  her,  filling  the  air  with  hoarse 
noises,  glaring  at  her  and  the  child  with  their  fierce  eyes.  An 
old  woman,  tiny  as  a  child,  and  thin  as  a  mummy,  stood  by, 
shouting  back  their  reviling  with  defiance.  Thus  with  whoop, 
and  taunt,  and  sacrilegious  gibes,  they  drove, the  poor  creature 
onward  to  the  mountains.  Up  and  up  she  clambered  with  the 
little  one  still  clinging  to  her  neck,  till  the  snow  became  heavy 
around  her,  and  she  waded  knee-deep  through  it,  tottering  and 
faint.  At  last  the  crowd  surged  together  around  a  mountain 
peak,  and  pointed  with  hoarse  shouts  to  a  valley  half  choked 
up  with  stone  cairns  and  shimmering  with  untrod  snow. 

Down  into  the  virgin  whiteness  of  this  valley  the  black 
masses  poured,  treading  down  the  snow  with  all  their  squalid 
ferocity  doubled  by  contrast  with  its  whiteness.  They  took 
the  child  from  her  mother  and  carried  her  shrieking  to  the  out 
skirts  of  the  crowd.  I  knew  the  man  that  held  her,  and  read 
all  the  fierce  agony  of  his  grief  as  he  strove  to  blind  the  child 
to  the  horrible  deed  that  crowd  was  perpetrating. 

I  saw  it  all — the  first  unsteady  whirl  of  stones,  the  fiendish 


306        VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS. 

eagerness  that  followed  ;  I  heard  the  shrieks — I  felt  her  death 
agony. 

Oh,  how  I  struggled  !  how  I  pleaded  with  the  strong  will 
that  enslaved  my  faculties  !  how  I  prayed  that  he  would  redeem 
me  from  the  horrors  of  that  mountain  pass  !  But  no,  the  curse 
of  memory  must  be  complete  j  I  was  compelled  to  live  over  the 
agony  of  my  mother's  death. 

I  knew  well  all  the  time  that  the  child  and  myself  were  one 
being  ;  but  as  in  ordinary  life  a  person  often  looks  upon  his 
own  sufferings  with  self-pity,  as  if  he  were  a  stranger  ;  so  I  fol 
lowed  wearily  after  the  little  creature  as  they  bore  her,  an 
orphan,  from  the  Valley  of  Stones.  I  saw  her  growing  thin, 
pining,  pining  always  for  the  mother  who  was  dead,  till  she 
grew  into  a  miserable  shadow,  with  all  the  life  of  her  being 
burning  in  those  large  eyes.  The  old  woman  and  the  man  kept 
her  to  themselves,  but  she  seemed  pining  to  death  while  they 
^wandered  from  mountain  to  mountain,  and  at  last  across  the 
seas. 

Again  Greenhurst  arose  on  my  vision,  the  old  building  among 
distant  trees,  the  village  just  in  sight.  A  gipsy's  tent  stood  in 
a  hollow,  back  from  the  wayside,  and  in  it  lay  the  shadowy 
child. 

The  gipsy  man  and  that  weird  little  woman  were  in  the  tent, 
and  from  without  I  heard  the  ringing  of  bells  and  the  tramp  of 
horses,  smothered  and  soft,  as  if  each  hoof-fall  were  broken 
with  flowers. 

Then  I  forgot  the  sick  child  and  stood  within  the  village 
church.  He  was  there  standing  before  the  altar,  his  hand 
clasped  that  of  the  proud  lady  who  had  so  often  wandered 
through  the  drama  which  I  was  forced  to  witness.  The  bride 
groom  was  pale  as  death,  and  she  looked  strangely  pallid  in  the 
silvery  cloud  of  her  brocaded  robe.  •  Still  she  was  firm,  and  I 
saw  that  nothing  had  been  confided  to  her — that  the  history 
of  my  poor  mother  had  never  reached  the  bosom  of  that 
proud  woman.  He  was  resolute,  resolute  to  trample  down 
every  right  of  another  in  search  of  his  own  happiness.  Fool  ! 


VISIONS     AND     RETEOSPECTIONS.        307 

fool  !  happiness  will  not  be  thus  wickedly  wrenched  from  the 
hands  of  the  Creator.  Even  then,  before  God's  altar,  he  had 
begun  to  reap  the  whirlwind.  Coming  events  cast  their  sha 
dows  all  around.  No  wonder  he  grew  white.  No  wonder  the 
marriage  vows  died  like  snow  upon  his  lips.  No  wonder  that 
all  the  bridal  blossoms  with  which  the  greensward  glowed  when 
they  went  in,  had  withered  beneath  the  hot  sun  !  Their  dying 
fragrance  fell  over  the  noble  pair  as  they  came  forth  wedded 
man  and  wife.  Man  and  wife  !  had  he  forgotten  the  subter 
ranean  vaults  beneath  the  Alhambra,  where  my  mother  stood  by 
his  side  with  firmer  faith  and  more  devoted  constancy  than  that 
woman  ever  knew  ?  Was  that  oath  forgotten  ?  No,  as  he 
came  forth  into  the  sunshine  treading  down  the  pale  blossoms 
as  he  had  trampled  my  mother  out  of  life,  a  bronzed  hand,  long 
and  lean  as  a  vulture's  claw,  was  thrust  over  his  path  ;  and 
night-shade  fell  thick  among  the  dead  blossoms.  He  did  not 
see  it,  for  the  weird  gipsy  woman  moved  like  a  shadow  among 
the  village  children  ;  but  he  shrunk  as  if  with  some  hidden 
pain,  and  grew  paler  than  before. 

The  will  that  controlled  mine  forced  me  onward  with  the 
newly  married  pair.  I  saw  him  struggle  against  the  leaden 
memories  that  would  not  be  swept  away.  His  mournful  smile, 
as  he  looked  on  her,  was  fall  of  saddened  love.  I  could  have 
pitied  them  but  for  my  mother.  I  saw  what  they  did  not,  her 
grave,  that  cairn  of  reddened  stones  looming  before  them  at 
every  step.  They  shuddered  beneath  the  invisible  shadow,  but 
I  knew  from  whence  it  fell. 

Their  route  to  Greenhurst  was  trampled  over  a  carpet  of 
flowers  ;  silver  and  gold  fell  like  rain  among  the  village  chil 
dren  ;  the  carriage  streaming  with  favors  swept  by  that  gipsy 
tent  where  the  sick  child  was  lying,  his  child,  all  unconscious  of 
its  double  orphanage. 

In  the  thralldom  of  my  intellect  I  was  forced  to  look  on, 
though  my  strength  was  giving  way.  With  shrinking  terror  I 
watched  the  movements  of  that  weird  murderess  as  she  crept 
into  Greenhurst,  and  with  the  accuracy  of  a  bloodhoudfl  stole 


308        VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS. 

through  the  very  apartments  my  mother  had  penetrated,  crawl 
ing  like  a  reptile  close  to  the  walls,  till  she  stood  upright  in  the 
bridal  chamber.  She  concealed  herself  behind  the  snowy  masses 
of  drapery  that  fell  around  the  bed. 

While  her  form  was  shrouded  in  the  heavy  waves  of  silk,  her 
dark  face  peered,  ever  and  anon,  through  the  transparent  lace 
of  the  inner  curtains  like  that  of  a  watching  fiend. 

As  one  whose  senses  were  locked  in  a  single  channel,  I  too 
waited  and  watched.  People  came  in  and  out  of  the  room, 
little  dreaming  of  the  fiend  hidden  in  the  snow  of  the  curtains. 

Even  in  its  slavery  my  spirit  sickened  as  I  watched  and  saw 
the  withered  veins  of  that  unearthly  wretch  swelling  with  mur 
derous  venom,  while  her  victims  were  moving  unconsciously  in 
the  next  room. 

The  curtains  rustled,  that  claw-like  hand  was  thrust  out,  and 
I  saw  half  a  dozen  drops  flash  down  like  diamonds  into  a  goblet 
of  water  that  had  just  been  placed  on  the  toilet. 

Then  a  door  opened,  and  the  bride  entered  from  her  dress 
ing-room  alone.  In  the  simple  white  of  her  robe  she  looked 
touching  and  lovely,  like  one  subdued  and  humbled  by  the 
depth  of  her  own  feelings.  The  delicate  lace  of  her  night  coif 
left  a  shadow  on  her  temples  less  deep  than  that  which  lay 
beneath  her  eyes.  Her  bosom  rosfc  slowly  and  with  suppressed 
respiration  beneath  the  rich  embroidery  that  embossed  her 
night  robe,  and  her  uncovered  feet  fell  almost  timidly  on  the 
carpet ;  not  with  girlish  bashfulness,  but  with  a  sort  of  religious 
awe  as  one  visits  a  place  of  prayer  afraid  to  enter. 

She  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  and  clasping  her  hands,  remained 
still,  as  if  some  prayer  lay  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  which 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  breathe  aloud.  The  broad,  white 
eyelids  were  closed,  and  twice  I  saw  that  fiendish  face  glaring 
at  her  through  the  curtains. 

She  arose  at  length,  and  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  stepped  into 
bed.  As  she  sunk  to  the  pillow  her  eye  fell  upon  the  goblet, 
and  resting  on  one  elbow,  she  reached  forth  her  hand  and  drank 
off  its  Contents. 


VISIONS     AND     RETROSPECTIONS.        309 

As  she  fell  softly  back  to  the  pillows,  a  hoarse  chuckle  came 
through  the  curtains.  She  started,  turned  her  face  that  way, 
and  out  came  that  black  head,  peering  at  her  with  its  terrible 
eyes.  A  broken  sigh,  a  shudder  that  made  the  white  drapery 
rustle  as  if  in  a  current  of  wind,  and  the  bride  lay  with  her  eyes 
wide  open  staring  upon  the  Sibyl. 

The  dead  face  grew  more  and  more  pallid  ;  the  dark  one 
above  glowed  and  gloated  over  it  like  a  ghoul.  Then  the  soft 
light  was  darkened,  and  the  bridegroom  leaned  over  his  bride 
listening  for  her  breath.  As  he  stooped,  the  curtains  opposite 
were  flung  back,  the  lace  torn  away,  and  like  an  exulting 
demon  the  old  woman  laughed  over  the  living  and  the  dead. 

The  scene  changed,  the  old  woman,  the  gipsy  man  and  the 
child  were  in  a  tent  at  midnight.  The  poor  little  one,  aroused 
from  her  torpid  rest,  looked  wildly  up  as  the  Sibyl  told  of  her 
murderous  act — told  of  it  and  perished  in  the  midst  of  her 
triumph — her  old  age,  exhausted  by  the  excitement  of  her  crime, 
ended  in  death. 

As  the  life  left  her  body,  I  felt  a  shock  run  through  my 
whole  being  ;  the  past  was  linked  with  the  present.  Back  to 
that  gipsy  tent  my  memory  ran  strong  and  connectedly. 

I  struggled  in  the  mesmeric  hands  which  guided  my  energies 
like  steel.  * 

"  Peace,"  said  the  man  who  had  enthralled  me,  "peace,  and 
remember." 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  air  as  if  some  unseen  bird  were  fan 
ning  it  with  his  wings,  a  cool  and  delicious  feeling  of  rest  crept 
over  me,  and'  as  a  child  wakes  I  opened  my  eyes.  The  Spanish 
gipsy  stood  over  me  revealed  by  the  quick  flashes  of  lightning 
that  blazed  through  the  room,  I  knew  that  he  had  been  my 
mother's  friend,  that  the  blood  in  his  veins  was  of  her  nation 
and  mine.  I  reached  forth  my  hand*  He  took  it  in  his,  and  I 
sat  up.  - 

"You  remember  all  now  ?"  he  said— "  all  that  I  have  re 
vealed  to  you — all  that  old  Papita  bade  you  forget  ?" 


310  THE     DESOLATE 

"  Yes,  I  remember — I  know  much,  but  not  all  ;  that  which 
happened  before  I  lived,  tell  me  of  that." 

"  Not  yet,  you  are  tired  I" 

"  Yes,  but  "— 

A  faintness  came  over  me,  my  strength  had  received  too 
great  a  shock  ;  for  a  time  I  had  no  power  to  think  or  feel. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE  DESOLATE  BRIDAL  CHAMBERS. 

AFTER  a  while,  during  which  I  had  been  stupefied  with  the 
very  weight  of  my  new  existence,  the  man  came  close  to  me 
and  took  my  hand. 

"  Child,"  he  said,  bending  over  me  till  I  could  see  the  glitter 
of  his  eyes.  "  Child,  are  your  eyes  open  ?  Is  the  knowledge 
complete  ?" 

"  Complete  !"  I  answered,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Look  at  me — who  am  I  ?  What  part  have  I  taken  in  the 
past  ?" 

"  You  are  Chaleco — you  loved  my  mother  who  fled  with  him. 
You  bore  me  from  the  snow  mountains,  and  warmed  me  in  your 
arms  when  thoughts  of  her  chilled  me  to  the  soul." 

"  And  is  that  all  ?" 

"  No,  the  tent.  I  saw  you  there  when  that  fierce  woman 
fell  dead  upon  the  earth  1" 

"  It  is  complete,"  he  said,  drawing  himself  up  and  lifting  one 
hand  to  heaven,  while  the  lightning  glared  upon  him,  "  the 
Egyptian  mysteries  have  lost  nothing  of  their  power, — that 
which  was  eternal  in  Papita  lives  still  in  Chaleco.  Who  shall 
prevail  against  one  who  holds  a  being  like  this  in  his  grasp  ? 


BRIDAL     CHAMBERS.  311 

The  soul  which  she  put  to  sleep  I  awake.  Girl  of  the  Caloe, 
stand  up,  let  me  see  if  the  blood  of  our  people  is  strong  in  your 
veins." 

I  stood  upright,  planting  my  feet  upon  the  floor  firm  as  a 
rock.  His  words  seemed  to  inspire  me  with  wild  vitality.  As 
I  looked  him  in  the  face  quick  gleams  of  lightning  shot  around 
us  ;  my  soul  grew  fierce  and  strong  beneath  the  lurid  flashes 
of  his  eyes  ;  my  own  scintillated  as  with  sparks  of  fire.  He 
spoke. 

"  Speak — are  you  Caloe,  or  of  the  gentile  ?  Base  or  brave  ? 
Speak  the  thought  that  is  burning  within  you.  Are  you  Au 
rora's  child  or  his  ?" 

My  form  dilated,  my  bosom  heaved,  I  felt  the  hot  blood 
flashing  up  to  my  forehead. 

"  I  am  Zana,  Aurora's  child,"  I  answered,  with  ineffable 
haughtiness.  "  The  snow  that  drank  her  blood  quenched  the 
pale  drops  in  my  veins." 

"Come,"  cried  Chaleco,  seizing  my  hand — "come  and  see 
the  desolation  which  her  rival  left  behind.  You  saw  the  wed 
ding — your  father's  wedding — come,  now,  and  look  at  the  home 
that  was  to  receive  the  bride." 

He  went  to  a  fire-place  that  yawned  in  the  chamber,  and  fell 
upon  his  knees.  Directly  I  heard  the  clash  as  of  flint  and  steel 
driven  furiously  against  each  other,  and  the  empty  fire-place 
was  revealed  by  the  storm  of  sparks  that  broke  upon  the  sculp 
tured  stones.  His  wild  impetuosity  defeated  itself  ;  five  or  six 
times  he  crashed  the  metal  in  one  hand  against  the  flint  which 
was  clenched  in  the  other.  At  last  the  fierce  sparks  centred  in  a 
volume,  and  with  a  flaming  torch  in  one  hand  Chaleco  stood  up. 

"  You  are  pale,"  he  said,  gazing  sternly  upon  me.  "  Is  this 
fear  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  subduing  a  thrill  of  awe,  as  the  darkness 
which  had  so  long  enveloped  me  was  driven  back  in  shadows, 
that  hung  like  funereal  drapery  in  the  angles  and  corners  of  tho 
chamber — "  no,  I  am  not  afraid.  But  that  which  has  been 
revealed  to  me  may  well  leave  my  face  white." 


312  THE     DESOLATE 

He  looked  at  me  keenly,  holding  up  the  torch  till  its  blaze 
flamed  across  my  eyes.  This  scrutiny  of  my  features  seemed  to 
satisfy  him,  for  his  lip  curved  till  the  white  teeth  gleamed 
through,  and  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  It  is  right — the  blood 
that  has  left  her  face  burns  in  the  heart — she  is  one  of  us." 

Muttering  thus,  he  led  the  way  from  the  chamber,  sending  a 
lurid  glare  backward  from  his  torch  along  the  damp  walls  of 
the  circular  staircase.  Thus  breaking  through  the  shadows 
that  gathered  thick  and  close  in  the  old  building,  he  led  me  on. 
The  tread  of  his  heavy  boots  resounded  through  the  vast  apart 
ments  with  a  defiant  clamor.  He  took  no  precaution  to.  con 
ceal  his  torch,  which  glared  back  from  the  closed  windows  as  if 
the  dull  glass  had  been  on  fire. 

We  threaded  galleries  hung  with  grim  old  pictures,  and  peo 
pled  with  statues,  some  antiques,  some  of  bronze,  and  others 
simply  of  armor,  the  iron  shells  from  which  warriors  had 
perished.  A  thrill  of  awe  crept  over  me  as  I  passed  these 
stern  counterfeits  of  humanity,  with  their  grim  hollows  choked 
up  with  shadows.  As  the  torchlight  fell  now  upon  the  limb  of 
a  statue,  now  across  the  fierce  visage  of  a  picture,  now  upon 
the  dull  carvings  of  oak,  my  imagination  increased  the  desolate 
grandeur,  till  marble,  iron,  and  canvas  seemed  instinct  with 
vitality. 

This  effect  was  not  diminished  by  the  wild  look  which  Chaleco 
sent  back  from  time  to  time,  as  I  followed  him. 

At  last  we  reached  a  door,  inlaid  and  empanelled  with  pre 
cious  woods.  Chaleco  attempted  to  turn  the  lock.  It  resisted, 
and  after  shaking  it  fiercely,  he  dashed  one  foot  against  it, 
which  forced  the  bolt  that  had  rusted  in  its  socket. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  you  shall  see  how  the  widow  had 
prepared  for  her  young  bridegroom." 

I  entered,  but  the  dull  atmosphere,  the  damp,  mouldly  smell 
was  like  that  of  a  tomb.  Chaleco  held  up  his  torch,  throwing 
its  strong  light  in  glaring  flashes  through  the  darkness.  It  had 
been  a  superb  suit  of  apartments,  hangings  of  azure  silk,  stained 
and  black  with  milder  ;  Parisian  carpets,  from  which  clouds  of 


BRIDAL     CHAMBERS.  313 

dust  rose 'at  every  foot-tread  ;  gildings  that  time  had  blackened 
into  bronze,  filled  my  gaze  with  a  picture  of  silent  desolation, 
that  made  my  already  worn  heart  sink  heavier  and  heavier  in 
my  bosom. 

I  shrank  back.  Chaleco  saw  it,  and  urged  me  on  with  a 
grim  smile.  I  remembered  the  scene  of  death  he  had  revealed 
to  me  in  my  unnatural  sleep,  and  feared  to  look  upon  the  place 
of  its  actual  perpetration. 

The  chamber  we  entered  had  once  been  all  white  and  superb 
in  its  adornments.  The  walls  were  yet  hung  with  fluted  satin, 
once  rich  in  snowy  gloss,,  Jaut  now  striped  with  black,  for 
accumulations  of  dust  had  filled  all  the  flutings.  Masses  of 
dusky  lace  flowed  down  the  windows,  and  were  entangled  over 
the  bed  with  many  a  dim  cobweb,  that  the  spiders  had  been 
years  weaving  among  their  delicate  meshes.  Dust  and  mildew 
had  crept  over  the  bridal  whiteness  of  everything.  The  couch 
seemed  heaped  with  shadows  ;  cobwebs  hung  low  from  the 
gilded  cornices  that  gleamed  through  them  here  and  there  with 
ghastly  splendor. 

As  Chaleco  lifted  his  torch  above  the  couch,  a  bat  rent  its 
way  through  the  lace,  scattering  a  cloud  of  dust  over  us,  and 
remained  overhead  drearily  flapping  his  impish  wings  among  the 
cobwebs,  till  they  swayed  over  us  like  a  thunder-cloud. 

"  Was  it  here  the  old  woman  killed  her  ?"  I  whispered. 

"  No,  she  never  reached  this.     It  was  at  Greenhurst." 

"  Why  do  you  bring  me  here  ?"  I  said,  shuddering. 

"  That  you  may  see  how  much  power  there  was  in  an  old 
woman's  curse." 

"  It  is  terrible,"  I  whispered,  looking  around.  "  My  mother, 
has  she  not  been  fearfully  avenged  ?" 

"Avenged!"  answered  the  gipsy;  ".do  you  call  this  ven 
geance  ?  Not  till  every  member  of  that  proud  house  is  in  the 
dust — not  till  Aurora's  child  triumphs  over  them,  body  and 
soul,  shall  Papita's  curse  be  fulfilled  !" 

His  words  fell  upon  me  like  blows ;  they  were  crushing  me 
to  the  earth.  I  thought  of  George  Irving.  His  treachery 

14 


314  THE     DESOLATE 

was  forgotten  ;  my  heart  only  remembered  his  kindness — his 
love. 

"  What,  all  ?"  I  questioned. 

"All  I  Poverty,  disgrace,  death,  these  are  the  curses  which 
Papita  has  left  for  you  to  accomplish." 

"  For  me  ?"  I  questioned,  aghast. 

"  You — yes,  it  is  your  inheritance.  She  left  it — I  enforce — 
you  accomplish  it." 

As  he  spoke,  the  bat  made  a  faint  noise  that  struck  upon  my 
ear  like  the  amen  of  a  demon,  and,  sweeping  down  from  his 
cloud  of  cobwebs,  he  made  a  dash  a,t  Chaleco's  torch  which  waa 
extinguished  by 'his  wings. 

"  Give  me  your  hand  !"  The  gipsy  seized  my  arm  as  he 
spoke,  and  led  me  onward  in  the  darkness.  I  followed  in 
silence,  rendered  desperate  by  all  I  had  suffered  and  seen. 

At  length  we  reached  the  open  air,  and  stood  together  upon 
the  entrance  steps.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the  clouds  were 
drifting  together  in  broken  masses,  leaving  fissures  and  gleams 
where  the  cold  blue  was  visible,  winding  like  half  frozen  rivers 
between  the  dull  clouds.  The  dense  vegetation,  the  vines  and 
huge  elms  were  dripping  with  rain,  and  every  leaf  shone  like 
silver  when  the  moon,  for  a  moment,  struggled  out  from  the 
clouds  that  overwhelmed  it. 

My  horse  stood  cowering  by  the  steps.  The  whole  force  of 
the  storm  had  beat  cruelly  upon  the  poor  old  fellow. 

Chaleco  lifted  me  to  his  back,  and  commanding  me  to  wait, 
went  away.  Directly  he  came  back,  mounted  on  what  appeared 
to  be  a  spirited  horse,  which  he  rode  without  saddle. 

"  Come  on  I"  he  said,  striking  Jupiter  with  his  whip,  "let's 
be  moving." 

"  Where  ?"  I  questioned,  sick  at  heart  with  a  fear  that  ho 
would  not  allow  me  to  return  home. 

"  To  your  inheritance — to  Greenhurst." 

"But  that  is  not  my  inheritance  !" 

"  You  are  the  child  of  its  lord,  and  he  is  dying." 

"  But  I  am  not  his  heiress." 


BRIDAL     CHAMBERS.  315 

"  Before  morning  you  will  have  proof  that  you  are  his  child. 
You  know  surely  how  to  work  on  the  repentance  of  a  dying 
man.  Go  to  him,  Zana  ;  this  estate  and  "others  are  his — no 
claim,  no  drawback — nothing  that  the  English  call  an  entail  on 
it.  One  dash  of  his  hand,  and  it  is  yours." 

"  But  it  was  hers,  not  his — Marston  Court  belonged  to  Lord 
Clare's  wife,"  I  said,  recoiling  from  the  idea  of  possessing  wealth 
that  had  once  belonged  to  my  mother's  rival. 

"  It  must  be  wrested  from  the  Clares — it  must  be  an  inherit 
ance  for  you  and  your  people,  Zana,"  he  said,  riding  close  to  me, 
as  Jupiter  picked  his  way  along  the  broken  road,  which  was  left , 
almost  impassable  by  the  storm.     And  he  added,  m 

11  If  'that  man  dies  without  enriching  you  and  your  tribe 
by  the  spoils  of  his  marriage,  the  curse  of  Papita  will  fall  on 
you." 

"It  is  here  already,"  I  answered,  shuddering;  "  with  nothing 
to  trust — nothing  to  love — deceived,  cheated,  outraged.  What 
curse  can  equal  this  ?" 

"  Have  you  not  deserved  it  ?"  he  questioned,  sternly. 

"  How  ?" 

"  Where  was  your  heart  ?  Had  not  the  blood  of  our  people 
grown  pale  in  it  ?  Did  you  give  it  to  a  Clare,  and  hope  to  go 
uucursed  ?  The  cry  of  your  mother's  blood,  is  it  nothing  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  it — oh,  would  to  heaven  I  had  never 
known,"  was  my  wild  answer.  "  What  am  I  to  do  ? — how 
act  ?" 

"  Go  home — be  passive — let  the  curse  work  itself  out.  You 
know  all — tell  it  to  your  father." 

"  It  will  murder  him  !"  I  cried. 

"  Well  I" 

The  word  fell  upon  my  ear  like  a  blow,  it  was  uttered  so 
fiercely. 

"  Oh,  don't ! — this  conflict — this  hardness — it  kills  me." 

"  No,  there  must  be  death,  but  not  for  you,  till  the  work  ia 
done." 

"  Oh,  what  is  this  fearful  work  ?" 


316  THE     DESOLATE 

"  Nothing,  only  wait.  Men  who  know  how  to  wait  for  ven 
geance  need  only  be  patient  and  look  on.  Death  is  here — I 
this  night  give  you'proofs  that  will  sweep  all  the  wealth  Lord 
Clare  controls  into  his  daughter's  lap.  Poh  !  child,  revenge  is 
nothing  when  forced,  the  soul  that  knows  how  to  wait  need  not 
work." 

I  did  not  comprehend  the  cold-blooded  philosophy  of  his 
words — what  young  heart  could  ?  But  one  thing  I  did  under 
stand  ;  George  Irving  might  be  independent  of  his  mother.  The 
property  that  Chaleco  was  grasping  for  me  must  be  wrested 
from  him.  A  fierce  joy  possessed  me  with  the  thought.  If  this 
wealth  were  offered  to  me  it  would  place  his  destiny  in  my 
hands.  I  could  withhold  or  restore  independence  to  the  man 
who  had  trifled  with  my  orphanage — stolen  tfre  friencl  from  my 
bosom,  and  uprooted  my  faith  in  human  goodness.  Not  for  one 
moment  did  I  dream  of  taking  his  inheritance,  but  there  was 
joy  in  the  thought  of  humbling  him  to  the  dust,  by  restoring  it 
with  my  own  hands.  Too  young  to  comprehend  the  refined 
selfishness  of  this  idea,  it  really  seemed  that  there  was  magnan 
imity  in  this  desire  to  humiliate  a  man  I  had  loved. 

As  we  rode  on  toward  Greenhurst,  my  frame  began  to  sink 
beneath  the  excitement  that  nothing  human  could  have  sup 
ported.  My  head  reeled;  the  damp  branches  that  swept  across 
my  path  almost  tore  me  from  the  saddle.  Jupiter  too  was 
tired  and  worn  out  with  the  drenching  storm.  He  staggered 
along  the  road  with  his  head  bent  to  the  ground,  ready  to 
drop  beneath  my  insignificant  weight.  Chaleco  saw  this,  and 
rode  closer  to  my  side  just  in  time  to  receive  me  on  his  arm  as 
I  was  falling. 

Without  a  word  he  lifted  me  to  his  own  horse,  and  cast 
Jupiter's  bridle  loose. 

"  Poor  old  fellow,  let  him  go  home,"  he  said  with  a  laugh  ; 
"but  as  for  .you  and  I,  Zana,  we  have  more  to  accomplish 

yet." 

He  held  me  close  with  his  left  arm,  grasping  the  bridle  with 
the  same  hand.  With  his  right  palm  upon  my  forehead,  he 


BKIDAL     CHAMBERS.  317 

rode  slowly  for  a  while,  till  the  strength  came  back  to  my 
limbs,  and  a  certain  vividness  of  intelligence  possessed  me 
again.  Then  he  spoke.  . 

"  Hold  tight  to  me,  and  be  strong.  We  have  lost  much 
time  that  may  be  important." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  put  his  horse  into  a  sharp 
canter  and  sped  on,  I  hardly  knew  or  cared  in  what  direction. 
At  last,  he  dismounted  and  placed  me  upon  the  ground,  asking 
abruptly  if  I  knew  the  objects  around  me.  The  moon  was  out 
just  then,  and  I  looked  earnestly  about.  It  was  the  spot  where 
the  gipsy  tent  had  been  pitched.  The  spring  where  I  had 
found  Cora,  when  an  infant,  flowed  softly  on  in  the  hollow  at 
a  little  distance,  and  before  me,  where  the  moonbeams  lay 
like  silver  upon  the  wet  grass,  I  saw  the  meadow  which  had 
once  been  my  sole  place  of  refuge. 

"You  know  the  place?"  said  Chaleco;  "it  was  here  she  died. 
Wait  a  little." 

He  searched  among  the  ferns  that  overhung  the  bank,  which 
I  have  described  as  rising  abruptly  from  the  spring,  and  drew 
forth  a  pick-axe  and  spade  covered  -with  rust.  A  fragment 
of  rock  lay  imbedded  in  the  bank  around  which  mosses  and 
gorse  of  many  years'  growth  had  crept. 

With  two  or  three  blows  of  the  pick-axe,  he  sent  this  stone 
crashing  down  into  the  water,  which  rose  up  in  a  wild  shower 
all  around  as  it  recoiled  from  the  rude  mass. 

Chaleco  shook  off  the  drops  like  a  water  -dog,  and  continued 
to  turn  up  the  earth.  Directly  he  lifted  a  slab  of  slate 
rock,  broad,  and  some  inches  thick,  which  certainly  could  not 
originally  have  belonged  to  the  soil  in  which  it  lay. 

Throwing  this  slab  back,  the  gipsy  fell  upon  his  knees,  and, 
groping  downward,  brought  up  a  bronze  box  or  coffer,  from 
which  he  brushed  the  soil  with  reverential  slowness. 

"  Loose  the  key  hung  around  your  neck  by  that  chain  of 
hair,"  he  said,  holding  the  box  up  in  the  moonlight  and  search 
ing  for  the  lock. 

I  started.    This  was  proof  undoubted  that  the  gipsy  had 


318      THE     DESOLATE     BKIDAL     CHAMBERS. 

never  lost  a  clue  to  my  identity,  for  no  human  being,  except 
Maria,  was  aware  that  a  key  of  antique  gold  and  platina  had 
always  hung  around  my  neck. 

I  drew  it  forth  with  a  feeling  of  awe,  and  watched  in  silence 
while  Chaleco  fitted  it  in  the  lock.  It  turned  with  difficulty, 
grating  in  the  rust,  and  when  the  lid  gave  way,  it  was  with 
a  noise  that  sounded  upon  my  ear  like  a  moan  of  suppressed 
pain. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  I  said,  looking  into  the  open  box  as  one 
gazes  into  a  coffin  after  it  has  been  long  closed,  curious,  but 
yet  afraid. 

"  It  is  all  that  you  will  ever  know  of  her — of  your  mother  1" 
lie  answered  with  a  touch  of  bitter  sadness  in  his  voice. 

I  received  the  box  reverentially  in  both  my  hands. 

"  Take  it,"  said  Chaleco,  closing  the  lid  ;  "  read  them  before 
you  sleep  I" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  should  never  sleep  again." 

I  said  this  to  Chaleco,  but  he  answered  me  sharply,  and 
thrusting  the  spade  and  pick-axe  aside  with  his  foot,  strode 
away  telling  me  to  follow.  The  sight  of  the  box  I  held  seemed 
to  irritate  him,  as  the  scent  of  blood  excites  a  wild  animal.  I 
folded  it  to  my  bosom  with  both  arms,  and  though  it  sent  a 
chill  through  every  vein  of  my  body,  and  made  me  stagger 
beneath  its  weight,  I  tightened  my  hold  each  moment  with  a 
painful  feeling  that  I  held  the  very  soul-  of  my  mother  close  to 
mine. 

Chaleco  strode  on  in  silence.  The  shadow  from  his  broad 
leafed  hat  deepened  the  sombre  gloom  of  his  countenance  ;  the 
moonlight  which  struck  across  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  re 
vealed  the  ferocious  compression  of  his  mouth. 

With  all  my  fatigue,  I  scarcely  felt  the  distance  as  we  walked 
rapidly  through  the  park.  Chaleco  did  not  speak  till  we  came 
in  sight  of  my  home,  then  he  paused  and  turned. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  speaking  low  and  huskily — "  Zana,  remem 
ber  you  have  a  stern  task  for  this  night — your  mother's  death 
to  revenge — your  people's  interest  to  secure.  Read  and  act." 


THE     BRONZE     COFFER.  319 

He  spoke  with  an  effort,  and  sprang  away  as  if  the  presence 
of  any  human  thing  were  a  torture. 

I  was  in  the  edge  of  our  garden  when  he  left  me.  A  noise 
among  the  shrubs  drew  me  onward,  and  I  found  Jupiter  lying 
close  to  his  stable,  still  saddled,  and  with  the  bridle  dangling 
around  his  head. 

I  had  no  room  in  my  heart  for  compassion,  even  for  the  poor 
old  fellow.  To  have  saved  his  life,  I  would  not  have  set  down 
my  box  for  a  moment ;  so  I  left  him  and  entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

THE    BRONZE    COFFER   AND    MY    MOTHER'S    JOURNAL. 

A  NIGHT  lamp  burned  in  the  lower  entrance,  for  Turner  was 
still  absent,  and  Maria  supposed  us  both  at  Greenhurst.  I  took 
the  lamp  and  went  to  my  room. 

No  sense  of  fatigue — not  even  the  awe  that  crept  over  me, 
could  restrain  the  desire  that  I  felt  to  examine  the  box.  I 
placed  it  on  the  floor,  fell  upon  my  knees,  and,  with  the  lamp 
standing  near,  lifted  the  lid. 

A  quantity  of  folded  papers,  and  the  gleam  of  antique  gold, 
floated  mistily  beneath  my  gaze.  My  fingers  trembled  as  they 
touched  the  papers,  yellow  with  age,  and  blackened  with  the 
written  misery  of  my  mother.  I  took  them  up,  one  by  one, 
reverently,  and  holding  my  breath.  It  was  long  before  I  could 
see  to  distinguish  one  letter  from  tanother.  But  at  last  the 
paper  ceased  to  rattle  in  my  hand — the  delicate  letters  grew 
distinct,  and  with  eager  eyes  I  devoured  them. 

At  first,  the  writing  was  broken  in  its  language  and  stiff  in 
chirography,  like  the  earnest  attempts  of  a  school-girl  to  write. 
The  sentiments  too  were  imperfectly  expressed,  and  full  of  wild 


320        THE  BRONZE  COFFEE  AND 

fancies  that  so  appealed  to  my  own  nature  that  my  heart 
answered  them  like  an  echo. 

There  was  something  child-like  and  exceedingly  beautiful  in 
the  expressions  of  happiness,  which  broke  out  through  all  the 
imperfections  of  language  and  style.  The  poetry  of  a  rich 
nature,  just  begining  to  yield  itself  to  the  influences  of  civiliza 
tion,  spoke  in  every  word.  Never  did  the  records  of  a  human 
life  seem  so  full  of  sunshine — never  have  I  seen  a  register  of 
affection  so  deep,  and  of  a  faith  so  perfect. 

I  read  eagerly,  turning  over  page  after  page,  and  gathering 
their  contents  at  a  glance.  The  dates  changed  frequently.  At 
first,  they  were  in  Seville,  then  in  various  continental  cities, 
where,  it  seems,  Lord  Clare  had  taken  her  after  their  flight  from 
Granada,  upon  whose  snow  mountains  she  had  at  last  perished. 

Still,  the  record  continued  one-  of  unbroken  happiness.  She 
invariably  mentioned  Lord  Clare  as  her  husband  ;  but  now  and 
then  came  an  expression  of  anxiety  for  the  thoughtfulness  that 
would,  at  times,  resist  all  her  efforts  to  amuse  him.  As  the 
manuscript  progressed,  it  was  easy  to  trace  the  development  of 
a  vigorous  mind  under  the  influence  of  an  intellect  more  power 
ful  than  itself.  There  was  a  break  in  the  manuscript.  The 
next  date  was  indefinite.  No  town,  no  county,  but  simply  the 
hills  of  Scotland. 

Oh,  how  beautiful  was  the  gush  of  affection  with  which  she 
spoke  of  her  infant  !  How  thoroughly  maternal  joy  expanded 
and  deepened  every  feeling  of  her  womanhood  !  Still  it  was 
here  that  I  found  the  first  trace  of  that  sorrow  which  soon 
darkened  every  page.  Her  warm  heart  was  dissatisfied  with 
the  measured  affection  with  which  Lord  Clare  received  his 
child.  She  questioned  the  cause,  finding  it  only  in  herself — her 
want  of  power  to  interest  wholly  a  mind  like  his.  She  wrote  of 
two  old  people  who  were  kind  to  her  and  her  little  one,  while 
Lord  Clare  was  abroad  on  the  hills,  or  absent  on  some  of  those 
long  journeys  which  he  occasionally  made  into  England. 

Again  the  scene  changed,  and  she  was  at  Greenhurst,  so  happy, 
so  more  than  pleased  with  the  beauty  and  comforts  of  the  home 


MY    MOTHER'S    JOURNAL.  321 

which  promised  to  be  permanent  at  last,  She  described  the 
dwelling,  the  rooms,  with  their  exquisite  adornments,  the  sta 
tuettes  and  pictures,  with  the  glow  of  a  vivid  mind  and  warm 
heart.  She  spoke  of  her  child — the  pretty  room  that  was  pre 
pared  for  it — the  devotion  of  a  woman  whom  Lord  Clare  had 
procured  from  Spain.  How  fearfully  strange  it  seemed  that  I 
was  the  child  so  loved  and  cared  for  ;  that  even  then  I  was 
acting  my  part  in  the  mournful  drama  that  had  left  me  worse 
than  an  orphan  1  How  often  did  I  find  myself  described,  my 
eyes,  the  flowing  wealth  of  my  curls,  the  precocious  vigor  of  rny 
mind  ! 

On  a  sudden  the  whole  character  of  the  manuscript  changed; 
the  delicate  writing  grew  abrupt  and  broken  ;  wild  dashes 
appeared  where  sentences  should  have  been,  and  a  spirit  of  sad 
ness  pervaded  every  written  word.  She  no  longer  spoke  of 
Lord  Clare  with  the  exulting  love  that  had,  at  first,  marked 
her  record  ;  and  every  time  her  child  was  mentioned,  the  name 
seemed  written  in  tears.  Still  it  was  but  the  shadow  of  unhap- 
piness  that  appeared.  No  broad  mention  of  discontent  was 
written,  but  a  foreboding  of  evil,  a  dread  of  impending  bereave 
ment  fell  upon  the  heart  with  every  sentence. 

At  last  it  came.  Lord  Clare,  her  husband,  loved  another — 
had  loved  another  long  before  he  found  her,  a  poor  Gitanilla, 
in  the  ruins  of  the  Alhambra. 

With  what  a  burst  of  anguish  the"  truth  was  written  !  How 
terrible  it  must  have  looked,  glaring  on  her  in  words  formed  by 
her  own  hand  1  Poor  thing — she  had  attempted  to  dash  the 
sentence  out,  but  the  quivering  hand  had  only  scattered  it  with 
blots ;  soiling  the  records  as  with  mourning,  but  not  obliterating 
a  single  word. 

After  this,  there  was  no  connection  between  the  wild  snatches 
of  anguish — the  pathetic  despair — the  pleadings  for  a  return 
of  love  which  were  written  in  all  the  eloquence  of  desperation, 
and  blistered  with  tears  that  stained  its  surface  yet. 

Trouble  blinded  my  eyes  as  I  read.  My  hands  trembled  as 
they  grasped  the  paper  on  which  her  tears  had  fallen.  My 

14* 


322        THE  BRONZE  COFFER  AND 

soul  was  full  of  my  mother — tortured  by  her  grief — swelling 
fiercely  with  a  bitter  sense  of  her  wrongs. 

I  read  on  to  the  end.  All  my  mother's  history  was  before 
me — I  saw  her  as  she  described  herself,  a  wild  dancing  girl  of 
Granada,  thrown  upon  the  notice  of  a  romantic  and  imaginative 
young  man — that  gipsy  marriage  in  the  caverns  of  the  Alham- 
bra  was  before  me  in  all  its  dismal  terrors.  Was  it  a  mar 
riage,  or  a  deception  by  which  my  mother  was  betrayed  ? 
Whatever  it  was,  she  believed  it  to  be  real.  No  doubt  that  she 
was  Lord  Clare's  wife  ever  appeared,  but,  in  the  last  page,  the 
cry  of  her  wronged  love  broke  out  in  one  fierce  burst  of.  sorrow. 
The  certainty  that  he  loved  another — had  never  entirely  loved 
her — uprooted  the  very  fibres  of  life.  She  never  wrote  rationally 
after  that. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  wrote,  and  great  drops  as  of  rain  blotted 
out  half  the  words — "  I  will  go  to  him  once  more,  and  tell  him 
of  my  oath.  Surely,  surely  he  will  not  let  me  die — me,  his 
wife,  his  poor  Gitanilla,  whose  beauty  is  not  all  gone  yet.  This 
woman,  does  she  love  him  as  I  do  ?  Will  she  give  up  ? — oh, 
Heaven  forgive  me,  I  gave  up  nothing  !  What  had  I  to  yield, 
a  poor,  dancing  gipsy,  with  nothing  on  earth  that  was  her  own, 
but  the  beauty  of  which  he  is  tired,  and  the  heart  he  is  break 
ing  ?  But  she,  this  woman  with  one  husband  in  the  grave — 
what  can  she  offer  that  Aurora  did  not  give  ?  Still,  oh,  misery, 
misery,  he  loves  her — I  can  see  it.  He  thinks  me  blind,  uncon 
scious,  content  with  the  sparse  hours  that  he  deals  out  grudg 
ingly  to  me  and  my  child.  Content !  well,  well,  it  may  not  be. 
I  have  read  of  jealous  hearts  that  create  by  wayward  suspicions 
the  evil  they  dread.  What  if  I  were  one  of  them  ?  Oh,  hea 
vens,  what  happiness  if  it  rested  thus  with  me  !  Let  me  hope 
— let  me  hope  I  *  *  *  * 

"It  is  over,  he  has  struck  my  child — the  blow  has  reached 
my  heart.  She  is  at  his  dwelling — I  too  will  enter  it — I  too 
will  strike.  Have  I  not  sworn  an  oath  that  must  be  redeemed  ? 
His  oath  is  forgotten.  The  gipsies  remember  better.  '  *  *  * 

"  She  sleeps  in  his  house  to-night ;  I  will  be  there  !     How 


MY    MOTHER'S    JOURNAL.  323 

wakeful  the  child  is  !  How  wild  and  fiery  are  the  eyes  with 
which  she  has  been  watching  me  from  that  heap  of  cushions  ! 
They  are  closed,  and  I  will  steal  away.  But  how  come  back  ? 
Will  it  be  the  last  time  ?  *  *  *  * 

"  I  have  seen  them  both — he  has  told  me  all.  He  never 
loved  me  as  he  loved  her,  not  even  then,  among  those  ruins. 
Never  loved  me  !  0,  my  God !  am  I  mad  to  repeat  these 
words  over  and  over,  as  the  suicide,  frantic  with  the  first  blow, 
plunges  the  dagger  again  and  again  in  his  bosom  ?  Why  can 
not  words  kill  like  daggers  ?  They  pierce  deeper — they  torture 
worse  ;  but  we  live.  Yes,  if  this  pang  could  not  wrench  life 
away,  nothing  can  reach  this  stubborn  hold  oil  existence.  He 
has  said  it  with  his  own  lips — I  am  not  loved — through  all  his 
life  that  woman  has  ever  stood  between  me  and  him.  I  rose 
from  my  knees  then  and  stood  up.  Did  I  entreat  ?  No,  no  ! 
Perhaps  he  expected  it — perhaps  he  thought  the  abject  gipsy 
blood  would  creep  to  his  feet  yet.  *  *  *  * 

"  Why  was  Zana  waiting  in  the  darkness  of  that  house  ? 
How  much  her  eyes  looked  like  those  of  my  grandame.  Ha  ! 
my  oath.  It  is  well  I  kept  silent  there.  Have  I  not  sworn 
that  nothing  but  death  shall  separate  us  two  ?  Let  them  live, 
the  despised  gipsy  has  the  courage  to  die.  Zana,  my  child, 
gather  up  your  strength,  many  dreary  miles  stretch  between  us 
and  the  caves  of  Granada,  but  death  is  there.  Without  his 
love,  my  poor  little  one,  what  can  we  do  but  die  ?"  *  *  * 

Here  the  manuscript  ended.  But  upon  one  of  its  blank 
pages  was  written,  in  another  hand,  words  that  froze  the  tears 
in  my  heart. 

It  was  a  stern  command  to  forsake  the  people  of  my  father's 
•  blood  ;  and  after  avenging  my  mother's  death,  return  to  my 
own  tribe  for  ever.  The  words  were  strong  with  bitter  hate, 
that  seemed  to  burn  into  the  paper  on  which  they  were  written. 
The  fearful  document  was  signed  PAPITA. 

The  papers  dropped  from  my  hand.  I  remember  sitting,  like 
one  stupefied,  gazing  down  upon  a  pile  of  gold  that  nearly  filled 
the  coffer,  fascinated  by  the  glitter  of  two  antique  ear-rings,  set 


324        THE  BRONZE  COFFER  AND 

with  great  rubies,  that  glowed  out  from  the  mass  like  huge 
drops  of  blood  that  had  petrified  there.  I  took  them  up  and 
clasped  them  in  my  ears  ;  their  history  was  written  out  in  the 
manuscript  I  had  just  read  ;  and  I  locked  them  with  a  sort  of 
awe.  They  seemed  a  fearful  link  that  was  to  drag  me  back  to 
my  people. 

While  I  searched  among  the  gold  for  some  other  token,  a 
strange  stupor  crept  over  me,  and  I  fell  exhausted  on  the  floor, 
folding  my  arms  over  the  bronze  box  and  its  contents. 

I  slept  heavily  for  hours,  so  heavily  that  all  the  sweet  noises 
of  morning  failed  to  arouse  me.  This  suspension  of  conscious 
ness  probably  saved  me  from  a  brain  fever,  or  perhaps  utter 
frenzy.  It  seems  that  I  had  locked  myself  in,  and  all  day 
Maria,  unconscious  of  my  return,  had  not  thought  of  looking 
for  me  till  Turner  came  home,  for  a  moment,  to  inquire  after 
us.  He  found  Jupiter  still  saddled,  wandering  around  the  wil 
derness,  hungry  and  forlorn  enough.  This  excited  his  fears, 
and,  directly,  the  faithful  old  man  was  knocking  at  my  chamber 
door.  The  noise  was  not  enough  to  arouse  me,  and  receiving 
no  answer  he  grew  desperate,  and  forcing  an  entrance^  found 
me  prone  upon  the  carpet  with  my  arms  around  the  bronze  cof 
fer,  my  soiled  garments  lying  in  torn  masses  around  me,  and  rny 
pale  features  gleaming  out  from  beneath  the  scarlet  kerchief, 
with  which  I  had  confined  the  riding-hat  to  my  head. 

The  stillness  of  death  itself  was  not  more  profound  than  the 
sleep  into  which  I  had  fallen  ;  but  at  last  the  gushes  of  fresh 
air  they  let  in  upon  me,  aromatic  vinegars,  and  the  desperate 
shake  that  Turner  gave  me  in  his  terror,  had  their  effect.  I 
stood  up,  stiffened  in  every  limb  and  in  a  sort  of  trance  ;  for  all 
consciousness  was  locked  like  ice  in  my  bosom. 

Slowly,  and  with  many  pangs,  the  remembrance  of  what  had 
happened  came  back  to  me.  'The  bronze  coffer  at  my  feet — 
the  sight  of  my  garments,  brought  back  a  consciousness  of  all 
that  I  had  learned  and  suffered  during  the  night.  I  took  up 
the  coffer  and  placed  it,  reverently,  on  a  table.  Turner  and 
Maria  watched  me,  with  anxious  curiosity.  The  box  was  a 


325 


singular  one,  and  covered  with  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  into 
which  the  red  soil  of  the  bank  had  introduced  itself.  I  took 
no  heed  of  Turner's  astonishment  ;  but,  self-centred  and  stern, 
asked  him  if  Lord  Clare — I  did  not  call  him  father — still  lived. 

•'Yes,"  answered  the  old  man,  and  all  his  features  commenced 
to  quiver,  "  he  lives — he  has  asked  for  you  again  and  again. 
Where  have  you  been,  Zana  ?" 

I  did  not  reply.  The  stern  duty  that  lay  upon  me  hardened 
all  my  senses  ;  the  old  man's  right  to  question  me  passed  for 
nothing.  I  asked  what  time  it  was,  as  if  he  had  not  spoken. 

It  was  four  in  the  afternoon.  Lord  Clare  had  inquired  for 
me  so  often,  that  Turner  determined,  spite  of  Lady  Catherine's 
prohibition,  to  bring  me  to  his  presence. 

"  Go,"  said  the  old  man,  gently — "  go  change  that  dress,  and 
drive,  if  it  is  possible,  that  deathly  white  from  your  cheek  ; 
there  is  no  resemblance  now  between  you  and  her ;  that  icy 
face  will  disappoint  him.  Look  like  yourself,  Zana — like 
her  /" 

I  went  at  his  bidding  and  changed  my  dress,  and  braided  my 
hair  with  fingers  as  stiff  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  nerveless  as 
iron.  The  pallor  did  not  leave  my  cheek  ;  the  blood  flowed 
still  and  icily  in  my  veins  ;  all  the  sweet  impulses  of  humanity 
seemed  dead  within  me.  I  remembered  a  scarlet  ribbon  which 
lay  in  the  box,  with  a  piece  of  gold  attached.  The  journal  had 
given  me  its  history.  The  gold  was  my  father's  first  gift  to  his 
gipsy  wife.  I  remembered  well  finding  the  ribbon  in  his  vest, 
and  carrying  it  away  with  a  sharp  infantile  struggle,  full  of  glee 
and  baby  triumph.  He  allowed  me  to  keep  it.  Yet  it  was  her 
dearest  maiden  ornament — the  earliest  sacrifice  that  she  had 
made  to  him.  The  event  was  impressed  on  my  mind,  because 
it  brought  forth  the  first  angry  word  that  I  ever  remember 
from  my  mother.  On  seeing  me  come  forward,  holding  up  the 
ribbon,  and  shouting  as  it  floated  behind  me,  I  remember  well 
the  quick  flash  of  her  eyes,  the  eager  bound  which  she  made 
toward  me,  and  the  clutch  of  her  hand  as  she  wrested  away  my 
treasure. 


326        THE  BRONZE  COFFEE  AND 

My  father  laughed  lightly  at  the  struggle,  but  she  bore  the 
ribbon  away,  and  did  not  appear  again  for  hours. 

As  this  memory  pressed  upon  my  miiid,  I  entered  the  room 
where  Turner  awaited  me,  took  out  the  ribbon,  and  hung  it 
with  the  gold  around  my  neck. 

"  Do  I  look  like  her  now  ?"  I  said,  turning  upon  the  old  man 
with  steady  coldness. 

He  did  not  reply.  His  distended  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
antique  rings  in  my  ears — a  sort  of  terror  possessed  him  at  the 
sight. 

"  Zana,  where  did  you  get  those  accursed  things?"  he  said. 

I  did  not  answer,  but  took  my  mother's  journal  from  the 
coffer  and  closed  the  lid  over  the  gold. 

Turner  followed  me  from  the  room,  evidently  filled  with  awe 
by  the  cold  stateliness  of  my  demeanor. 

With  a  heart  harder  than  the  nether  millstone,  I  entered  the 
house  which  held  my  dying  father.  No  misgivings  of  humanity 
possessed  me — my  soul  was  cruel  in  its  purpose,  and  my  foot 
steps  fell  like  iron  upon  the  tessellated  vestibule. 

Upon  the  staircase  we  met  Lady  Catherine  Irving.  She  con 
fronted  me  with  her  impatient  wrath  and  ordered  me  back, 
denouncing  Turner  for  having  introduced  me  a  second  time 
against  her  commands.  I  listened  till  she  had  done,  and  then 
sternly  pursued  my  way,  leaving  Turner  behind. 

I  opened  the  door  of  Lord  Clare's  chamber.  A  voice  from 
the  bed,  feeble  and  sharp  as  that  of  an  old  man,  called 
out : 

"  Turner,  Turner,  is  it  you ?     Have  you  found  the  child?" 

I  strode  up  to  the  bed  and  bent  over  the  dying  man.  My 
haii*  almost  touched  his  forehead.  The  glow  of  his  great,  fever 
ish  eyes  spread,  like  fire,  over  my  face. 

When  he  saw  me  that  sharp  face  began  to  quiver,  and  over 
each  cheek  there  darted  a  burning  spot,  as  if  a  red  rose  leaf 
had  unfurled  upon  it.  He  lifted  his  long  arms,  and  would  have 
clasped  them  over  my  neck,  but  they  fell  back,  quivering,  upon 
the  bed.  With  his  lips  drawn  apart,  and  the  glitter  of  his 


MY    MOTHER'S  ^JOURNAL.  327 

eyes  growing  fearful,  lie  lay  gazing  at  the  ruby  rings  that 
weighed  down  my  ears. 

"  Those,  those  ! — the  rubies  !  How  came  they  here  ? — what 
demon  has  locked  them  into  those  ears?  Out  with  them, 
Zana^-out  with  them,  they  are  accursed  !" 

He  held  up  those  pale  hands  and  grasped  eagerly  at  the  ear 
rings  ;  but  I  drew  back,  standing  upright  by  his  bed. 

"  They  are  my  inheritance,"  I  said  ;  "  touch  them  not." 

"  They  are  accursed,"  he  faltered,  struggling  to  his  elbow, 
"  the  symbols  of  treachery  and  blood — they  were  in  her  ears — 
the  sorceress — the  poisoner — they  were  in  her  ears  that  night." 

"  I  know  it.  They  belonged  to  old  Papita,  the  grandame 
of  my  mother,  the  Gitanilla  whom  you  married  in  the  vaults  of 
the  Alhambra.  I  am  her  child." 

"  And  mine  !"  he  cried,  casting  up  his  arms  as  he  fell  back 
ward  upon  the  pillows. 

I  drew  back,  repulsing  those  quivering  arms  with  a  motion 
of  my  hand.  They  fell  heavily  upon  the  bed-clothes.  A  groan 
burst  from  his  lips,  and,  from  beneath  his  closed  eyelids,  I  saw 
two  great  tears  roll  slowly  downward. 

For  one  moment  the  heart  within  me  was  stirred  with  an  im 
pulse  of  compassion.  I  removed  the  red  ribbon  from  my  neck 
and  flung  it  over  his,  the  pure  offering  of  my  soul.  He  grasped 
the  gold  with  both  hands  and  held  it  against  his  heart,  mutter 
ing  faint  prayers  to  himself.  I  took  one  of  the  pale  hands  in 
mine ;  the  touch  softened  me  still  more.  The  word  father  trem 
bled  on  my  lips — another  moment  and  I  must  have  fallen  on  my 
knees  by  his  side.  But  that  instant  Lady  Catherine  Irving 
laid  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  Go  !"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.     "  Insolent,  begone  1" 

I  shook  off  her  detested  touch  and  drew  myself  sternly  up. 

"  Hence,  woman  !"  I  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  door  with  my 
hand — "  hence;  and  leave  me  alone  with  my  father  1" 

She  turned  livid  with  rage,  but  kept  her  ground,  attempting 
to  force  me  from  the  bed  ;  but  she  might  as  well  have  tried  her 
puny  strength  on  a  rock. 


328        THE  BRONZE  COFFEE  AND 

"  Catherine,  go,  it  is  my  child,"  said  a  faint  voice  from  the 
bed  ;  "  leave  us  together." 

"  It  is  against  the  physician's  orders — his  mind  wanders — it 
is  madness  !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  addressing  Turner,  who  fol 
lowed  her  ;  "  you  will  bear  witness,  good  Turner,  that  at  the 
last  his  mind  wandered." 

Lord  Clare's  eyes  opened,  and  were  bent,  with  a  look  of  in 
effable  love,  upon  my  face. 

"  My  child — my  child  1"  he  murmured,  repeating  the  name 
as  if  the  sound  were  sweet  to  him.  Then  looking  at  Turner,  he 
whispered,  "  There  must  be  some  new  proof.  Those  rings,  take 
them  from  her — for,  before  the  God  of  heaven,  she  is  my  own 
child." 

"  He  raves — he  is  insane  I"  cried  Lady  Catherine,  attempt 
ing  to  push  me  aside. 

I  have  said  that  my  heart  was  hard  as  a  rock  when  I  entered 
that  chamber.  A  moment  of  tenderness  had  softened  it,  but 
the  presence  of  this  woman  petrified  it  again.  Still  I  could  not 
share  in  this  unholy  strife  around  my  father's  death-bed  without 
a  shudder.  My  very  soul  revolted  from  the  contest  which 
might  ensue  if  I  persisted  in  remaining.  I  took  the  hand  which 
had  been  feebly  extended  toward  me,  and  pressed  the  journal 
of  my  mother  into  its  clasp.  He  lifted  up  the  papers,  held 
them  waving  before  his  eyes,  and  muttering,  "  It  is  hers — it  is 
hers  !"  cowered  down  into  the  bed  and  began  to  moan. 

"  What  papers  are  those  ?"  almost  shrieked  Lady  Catherine, 
attempting  to  possess  them,  but  the  dying  man  dragged  them 
beneath  the  bed-clothes.  "It  is  forbidden  him  to  read — he 
shall  not  attempt  it  1" 

Lord  Clare  started  up  in  bed,  and  pointed  his  long,  shadowy 
finger  toward  the  door. 

"Woman,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  made  her  creep  slowly 
backward — "  woman,  intermeddle  no  more — leave  me  with  these 
papers  and  my  God  !" 

The  astonished  and  terrified  woman  crept  abjectly  from  the 
room,  with  her  pallid  face  averted. 


MY    MOTHER'S    JOURNAL.  329 

Lord  Clare  sat  upright,  unfolding  the  yellow  and  time-stained 
journal  of  my  mother  with  his  shaking  hands. 

"  Fling  back  the  curtains,"  he  cried.  "  Nay,  nay,  my  eyes  are 
dim — bring  lights — bring  lights.  Ha,  yes,  that  is  the  sunset, 
let  me  read  it  by  the  last  sun  I  shall  ever  see  I" 

Turner  had  drawn  back  the  bed  curtains,  twisting  them  in 
masses  around  the  heavy  ebony  posts.  But  this  was  not  enough, 
with  a  swgep  of  his  arms  he  sent  all  the  glowing  silk  away  from 
the  nearest  window,  letting  in  a  burst  of  the  golden  sunset. 

And  by  this  light  my  dying  father  began  to  read  the  records 
of  the  heart  he  had  broken.  It  was '  terrible  to  witness  the 
eagerness  with  which  his  glittering  eyes  ran  over  the  paper. 
New  vitality  had  seized  upon  him  :  he  sat  upright  and  firm  as 
an  oak  in  the  bed,  which  had  quivered  to  his  nervous  trembling 
a  few  minutes  before. 

I  had  entered  the  room  determined  to  spare  no  pang  to  the 
dying  man — to  shrink  from  nothing  that  might  send  back  an 
avenging  torture  for  all  that  he  had  dealt  to  my  mother,  but  I 
was  young  and  I  was  human.  The  blood  that  beat  in  his  almost 
pulseless  heart  flowed  in  my  veins  also.  I  could  not  look  upon 
him  there — so  pale,  so  full  of  deathly  beauty — and  be  his  exe 
cutioner.  I  turned  away  resolved  to  spare  him  the  details  of 
my  mother's  death.  I  met  Lady  Catherine  again  upon  the 
stairs,  and  she  shrunk  back  from  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  viper. 
It  gave  me  no  pain — I  was  scarcely  conscious  of  her  presence. 


330         THE     SHADOWY     DEATH-CHAMBEE. 


CHAPTER    XLY. 

THE     SHADOWY     D E A T H - C H AM B E R  . 

I  AWOKE  in  the  night  from  a  broken  and  unhealthy  sleep. 
Turner's  voice,  and  the  tramp  of  Jupiter  outside  my  window 
had  aroused  me.  I  raised  the  sash,  and  looked  out  in  time  to 
see  the  old  man  throw  himself  on  Jupiter's  back  and  ride  swiftly 
away.  Just  then  the  clock  chimed  three. 

I  could  not  sleep  again.  A  remembrance  of  the  scene  by  my 
father's  death-bed— the  knowledge  that  now  he  had  full  proof 
that  I  was  indeed  his  child,  came  with  startling  acuteness  to  my 
mind.  I  reflected  that  in  that  house  my  mother  had  lived  her 
brief  period  of  happiness,  and  known  the  anguish  that  at  last 
drove  her  to  death.  Never  had  I  felt  her  memory  so  keenly, 
or. her  presence  so  near.  A  craving  desire  to  draw  my  soul 
closer  to  hers  by  material  things  seized  upon  me.  The  room 
which  I  could  remember  her  to  have  occupied,'  and  that 
had  been  so  often  alluded  to  in  her  journal,  had  never  been 
opened  since  she  left  it.  Turner  and  Maria  avoided  the  very 
passage  which  led  to  it,  and  I  had  shared  somewhat  in  this 
spirit  of  avoidance.  Now  a  desire  possessed  me  to  visit  that 
room.  The  key  was  lost,  Turner  had  often  told  me  that,  but 
bolts  were  of  little  consequence  to  me  then.  I  dressed  hurriedly 
and  let  myself  into  the  garden.  Around  the  old  stone  balcony 
the  vines  had  run  riot  for  years,  weaving  themselves  around  the 
heavy  balustrades  in  fantastic  and  leafy  masses. 

I  tore  these  vines  asunder,  laying  the  old  steps  bare  and  scat 
tering  them  with  dead  leaves,  as  I  made  my  way  to  the  balcony, 
which  was  literally  choked  up  with  the  silky  tufts  of  the  cle 
matis  vines,  run  to  seed,  and  passion  flowers  out  of  blossom. 
The  nails,  grown  rusty  in  the  hinges,  gave  way  as  I  pulled  at 


THE     SHADOWY     DEATH-CHAMBER.          331 

the  shutters  closed  for  years  and  years.  Then  the  sash-door 
yielded  before  me,  and  I  stood  in  the  room  my  mother  had 
inhabited  ;  and  for  the  first  time  trod  its  floor  since  she  left  it 
on  that  bitter,  bitter  night.  How  well  I  remembered  it  1  Then  I 
had  stood  by  her  side  a  little  child  ;  now  I  was  a  woman  alone 
in  its  desolation.  I  sat  down  in  the  darkness  till  the  first  tints 
of  dawn  revealed  all  its  dreary  outlines.  A  pile  of  cushions  lay 
at  my  feet,  and  gleams  of  the  original  crimson  came  up  through 
the  dust.  On  those  Cushions  I  had  crouched,  watching  her 
through  ray  half-shut  lashes  as  she  sat  in  the  easy-chair,  medi 
tating  her  last  appeal  to  the  merciless  heart  of  her  husband. 

A  cashmere  shawl,  moth-eaten,  and,  with  its  gorgeous  tints 
almost  obliterated,  hung  over  the  chair,  sweeping  the  dim  car 
pet  with  its  dusty  fringes.  Pictures  gleamed  around  me  through 
a  veil  of  dust;  and  vases  full  of  dead  flowers  stood  on  the  mosaic 
tables.  When  I  touched  the  leaves  they  crumbled  to  powder 
beneath  my  fingers.  I  beat  the  cushions  free  from  their  deface 
ment,  and  reverently  shook  out  the  folds  of  my  mother's  shawl. 
These  were  the  objects  she  had  touched  last,  and  to  me  they 
were  sacred.  The  rest  I  left  in  its  dreariness,  glad  that  time 
and  creeping  insects  had  spread  a -pall  over  them. 

Seated  in  her  chair,  I  watched  the  dawn  break  slowly  over 
the  garden.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  waiting  for  something — as 
if  some  object,  sacred  to  her  memory,  had  called  me  to  that 
room,  and  placed  me  in  that  chair.  It  was  a  dull  morning. 
Tints  that  should  have  been  rosy  took  a  pale  violet  hue  in 
the  east.  The  birds  were  beginning  to  wake  up,  but  as  yet 
they  only  moved  dreamily  in  the  leaves.  No  wind  was  astir, 
and  the  shadows  of  night  still  lay  beneath  the  trees  of  the  wil 
derness.  The  stillness  around  was  funereal. 

Unconsciously  I  listened.  Yet  whom  could  I  expect  ?  What 
human  being  ever  entered  that  room  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
one  unhappy  woman  ? 

At  length  there  came  upon  this  stillness  a  sound  that,  would 
have  startled  another,  but  I  sat  motionless  and  waited.  It  was 
like  the  struggling  of  some  animal  through  the  flower  thickets 


332         THE      SHADOWY      DEATH- CHAMBER. 

—the  unequal  tread  of  footsteps — short  pauses  and  quick 
gasps  of  breath.  Then  a  feeble  sound  of  some  one  clambering 
up  the  steps,  and  there,  upon  the  balcony,  stood  my  father. 

My  heart  ceased  to  beat  ;  for  the  universe  I  could  not  have 
moved  or  spoken.  He  was  dressed  so  strangely,  his  under  gar 
ments  all  white  as  snow,  with  that  gorgeous  gown  of  Damas 
cus  silk  flowing  over.  His  head  was  bare,  and  the  locks  curled 
over  the  pallid  forehead,  crisped  with  a  dampness  that  I  after 
wards  knew  was  the  death  sweat. 

He  stood  within  the  window,  with  those  great,  burning  eyes 
bent  on  me.  Their  look  was  unearthly — their  brightness  terri 
ble  ;  but  there  was  no  shrinking  in  my  heart.  I  hardened 
under  it  as  steel  answers  to  the  flame. 

After  shaking  the  dust  from  my  mother's  shawl,  I  had  laid  it 
back  upon  the  chair  as  it  was  at  first ;  but  when  I  sat  down 
the  folds  were  disturbed,  and  fell  around  my  shoulders,  till, 
unconsciously,  I  had  been  draped  with  them  much  as  was 
my  mother's  custom.  Thus  I  appeared  before  her  husband  and 
my  father,  ignorant  of  the  appalling  likeness  that  struck  his 
dying  heart  to  the  centre. 

He  stood  for  a  whole  minute  in  the  sheltered  window,  never 
turning  his  eyes  a  moment  from  my  face.  Then  with  a  feeble 
stillness,  taking  each  step  as  a  child  begins  to  walk,  he  glided 
toward  me,  and,  sinking  on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  took  my  two 
hands  softly  in  his,  and  laid  his  damp  forehead  upon  them. 

"  Aurora — Aurora,  forgive  me,  forgive  her — I  am  dying — I 
am  dying  ! — she  wronged  you  unconsciously." 

It  sounds  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  yet — the  pathetic  anguish 
of  those  words  !  I  could  not  move  :  my  lips  clung  together  : 
a  stillness  like  that  of  the  grave  fell  over  us  both.  He  had 
taken  me,  the  implacable  child,  for  the  wronged  mother  ;  his 
cold  lips  lay  passive  upon  my  hands,  and  I  had  no  power  to 
fling  them  off. 

He  meekly  lifted  his  head.  Those  burning  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears,  in  which  they  seemed  to  float  like  stars  reflected  in 
water. 


THE     SHADOWY     DEATH-CHAMBER.         333 

"  You  will  not  speak  it,  Aurora,  and  I  am  dying  ?"  he  mur 
mured,  clasping  his  arms  over  my  neck,  and  drawing  his  head 
upward  to  my  bosom,  till  I  could  feel  the  sharp,  quick  pants  of 
his  heart  close  to  mine.  "  I  have  been  years  and  years  search 
ing  for  the  thing  forgiveness  ;  and  now  when  your  lips  alone 
can  speak  it,  they  will  not  !  I  am  waiting,  Aurora — but  you 
will  not  let  me  die  !  To  wait  is  torture — but  you  will  not 
speak  !" 

Q  my  God,  forgive  me  1  but  the  black  blood  of  Egypt 
rose  like  gall  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  when  he  spoke  of  tor 
ture  m  that  prayerful,  broken-hearted  manner.  I  forgot  him, 
though  he  lay  heavy  as  death  upon  my  bosom,  and  thought 
only  of  the  real  torture  under  which  she,  for  whom  I  was  mis 
taken,  had  perished.  My  heart  rose  hard  and  strong,  repelling 
the  feeble  flutter  of  his  with  the  heave  of  an  iron  shaft. 

"  It  is  not  Aurora — I  am  not  your  gipsy  wife,  Lord  Clare, 
but  her  child — the  foundling  of  your  servant — the  scoff  of  your 
whole  race.  I  am  Zana  !" 

"  Zana  !"  he  repeated,  lifting  his  eyes  with  a  bewildered  and 
mournful  look,  "  that  was  our  child  ;  but  Aurora,  how  many 
times  shall  I  ask  where  is  she  ?  Have  I  not  come  all  this 
weary  way  to  find  her  ?  Where  is  she,  Zana  ?" 

"  I  gave  you  her  journal,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  have  it  here  under  my  vest :  you  will  find  it  by 
and  by,  but  let  it  be  a  little  while.  She,  Aurora,  herself,  this 
writing  is  not  forgiveness  ;  and  I  say  again,  child,  I  am  dying  I" 

"  I  have  nothing  but  what  she  has  written,*  I  answered, 
shrinking  from  his  questions  as  if  they  had  been  poniards. 

"  But  she  does  not  tell  all — not  a  word  since  that  night. 
She  was  going  somewhere — she  talked  about  dying,  but  that  is 
not  easy,  Zana — see  how  long  I  have  been  about  it,  and  not 
dead  yet.  Tell  me  what  she  has  been  doing  since  that  miser 
able,  miserable  night." 

"  Ask  her  in  Eternity  1"  I  said,  attempting  to  free  myself 
from  his  embrace.  "  If  the  dead  forgive,  ask  forgiveness  of  her 
there." 


334         THE     SHADOWY     DEATH-CHAMBER. 

\ 

He  drew  back  upon  his  knees,  supporting  himself  by  the 
marble  pressure  of  his  hands  upon  my  arms. 

"  Dead.  Is  Aurora  dead  ?"  fell  in  a  whisper  from  his  white 
lips.  "  Is  she  waiting  for  me  there  ?" 

"  She  is  dead!"  I  answered. 

"  When,  how,  where  did  she  die  ?"  he  questioned,  with  sud 
den  energy,  and  a  glitter  of  the  eye  that  burned  away  all  the 
tears. 

I  hesitated  one  minute — an  evasion  was  on  my  lips.  I  could 
not  tell  him  how  his  victim  had  died;  it  was  striking  a  poniard 
into  the  last  struggles  of  waning  life.  Suffering  from  the 
agony  of  his  look  I  turned  my  head  away;  the  fringe  of  my 
mother's  shawl  caught  in  the  ruby  ear-rings  that  were  swayed 
by  the  motion.  A  fiery  pain  shot  through  my  temple;  the 
gipsy  blood  ran  hot  and  bitterly  in  my  veins.  His  voice  was 
in  my  ear  again,  feeble,  but  commanding. 

"  Speak — how  did  Aurora  die  ?" 

The  answer  sprung  like  burning  lava  to  my  lips.  I  forgot 
that  it  was  a  dying  man  to  whom  I  spoke.  My  words  have 
rung  back  to  my  own  soul  ever  since,  clear  and  sharp  as 
steel. 

"  Your  wife — my  mother — was  stoned  to  death,  by  her  tribe  in 
the  snow  mountains  back  of  Granada  /" 

My  father  sprang  to  his  feet.  For  a  moment  he  stood  up, 
stiff  and  stark,  like  a  marble  shaft:  then  he  reeled  forward  and 
fell  prone  upon  the  cushions,  with  a  cry  that  made  every  nerve 
in  my  body  quake. 

That  cry,  that  prostrate  form,  0  God  forgive  me!  barba 
rian  that  I  was — my  voice  had  smitten  him  to  the  soul.  I,  his 
only  child,  had  fiendishly  hurled  him  down  to  die !  -  I  looked 
upon  him  where  he  lay,  ghastly  and  quivering,  like  a  shot 
eagle,  among  the  cushions.  All  the  sweet  memories  of  my 
infancy  came  back:  a  remembrance  of  the  first  tender  kisses 
those  lips  had  pressed  on  my  forehead,  seemed  burning  there 
in  curses  of  my  cruelty.  I  knelt  down  beside  him,  humbled  to 
the  dust,  racked  with  an  anguish  so  scathing,  that  while  I 


THE   SHADOWY  DEATH- CHAMBER.    335 

longed  to  perish  by  his  side,  it  seemed  as  if  I  were  doomed  to 
live  on  forever  and  ever. 

I  felt  a  shudder  creep  over  his  limbs  as  I  bent  over  and 
touched  him. 

"  Father,  0  my  father!"  I  cried,  in  terrible  anguish,  "  speak! 
say  that  I  have  not  killed  you!" 

He  did  not  speak;  he  did  not  move;  his  eyes  were  closed; 
his  pale  hand  lay  nerveless  upon  the  carpet.  An  awful  chill 
crept  over  me.  I  felt  like  a  murderess  stricken  with  the  first 
curse  of  my  crime. 

Noises  came  from  the  balcony,  people  were  scrambling  up 
the  steps,  probably  aroused  by  that  fearful  cry.  I  heard  Tur 
ner's  voice — other  persons  were  with  him.  One  a  professional- 
looking  man,  who  held  a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hand;  another 
followed,  carrying  an  inkstand  bristling  with  pens.  The  first 
man  sat  down  by  a  table,  upon  which  some  vases  stood,  and, 
unrolling  a  parchment,  looked  keenly  at  Turner. 

"  Awake  him  gently,  there  is  no  time  to  lose  ;  this  terrible 
effort  must  soon  terminate  all." 

Turner  knelt  down  by  his  master,  and  I  drew  back,  waiting 
breathlessly  for  him  to  speak  ;  my  very  salvation  seemed  hang 
ing  on  his  first  word.  How  white  he  grew  ;  how  those  old 
hands  shook  as  they  touched  the  pale  fingers  that  had  fallen 
over  the  cushion  !  It  was  a  long  time  before  that  good  old  man 
could  master  the  tears  that  swelled  to  his  throat.  The  stillness 
was  profound.  No  one  stirred  ;  the  barrister  sat  with  one 
hand  pressed  on  the  will  he  had  come  to  execute  ;  the*othei 
held  the  pen  suspended  motionless. 

"  Will  he  •  sign  now  ?"  questioned  the  man,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
"  it  is  all  that  is  wanting." 

Turner  stood  up,  and  his  white  face  was  revealed  to  the  bar 
rister,  who  began  to  roll  up  the  parchment. 

"  Good  heavens,  is  it  so  ?"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  supressed  voice, 
"  and  in  this  strange  place." 

"  My  master,  0  my  master  !"  cried  Turner,  falling  upon 
his  knees,  and  crying  aloud  in  his  anguish  as  he  lifted  the  pale 


336         THE     SHADOWY     DEATH-CHAMBER. 

hand  of  the  dead,  and  laid  it  reverently  on  the  still  bosom,  "  oh, 
would  to  God  I  had  died  for  thee  1" 

I  looked  on  the  old  man  with  wonder  and  envy.  He  could 
weep,  but  I  was  frozen  into  stone — he  could  touch  the  beloved 
hand;  I  was  afraid  even  to  look  that  way.  The  curse  of  my 
gipsy  inheritance  was  upon  me  ;  the  first  act  in  the  great  drama 
of  vengeance  was  performed,  and  it  had  left  me  branded,  heart 
and  soul.  I  sat  cowering  in  the  shadows  like  a  criminal,  not 
like  the  avenger  of  a  great  wrong.  I  had  built  up  walls  of 
granite  between  myself  and  the  dead,  I,  his  only  child. 

The  rush  of  all  these  thoughts  on  my  brain  stifled  me.  I 
could  no  longer  endure  the  presence  of  the  living  nor  the  dead, 
but  arose  and  descended  into  the  garden.  Turner  followed  me, 
weeping,  and  evidently  with  a  desire  to  comfort  me.  I,  wishing 
to  avoid  him,  was  still  held  by  a  sort  of  fascination  under  the 
windows  of  the  death-chamber.  A  Utter  stood  beneath  the 
balcony,  on  which  a  mattress  had  been  placed  ;  I  knew  what  it 
was  for,  and  lingered  near  it  with  my  eyes  uplifted  to  the  room 
above.  There  was  a  faint  conversation,  smothered  whispers, 
and  a  muffled  tread  of  feet  upon  the  carpet. 

I  know  not  how  or  whence  she  came,  but  Maria  stood  by 
me,  with  her  hands  clasped  in  the  shock  of  a  first  terrible  sur 
prise,  tearless  and  hushed,  a  picture  of  mute  sorrow.  We  were 
both  looking  upward.  We  saw  them  as  they  lifted  him  from 
the  cushions,  and  bore  him  forward  over  the  trampled  vines  to 
the  broken  steps.  The  faces  of  these  men  wore  a  look  of  stern 
sorrow.  They  descended,  very  slowly,  while  Turner  stood 
below  with  arms  uplifted,  prepared  to  receive  the  dead. 

The  men  paused,  half-way  down  the  steps,  to  free  a  portion 
of  the  Oriental  gown  which  had  entangled  itself  in  the  balus 
trade.  Just  then,  a  first  beam  of  the  sunrise  fell  across  that 
marble  face.  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  was  !  how  mournfully  beau 
tiful  !  Dim  blue  shadows  lay  around  the  closed  eyelids.  The 
deathly  white  of  the  forehead  gleamed  out  from  the  golden 
auburn  of  his  hair  and  beard,  which  the  sunshine  struck  aslant, 
and  the  wind  softly  stirred  in  terrible  contrast  with  the  stillness 


THE     8HADOWY     DEATH -CHAMBER.          337 

of  the  face  and  limbs.  A  look  of  holy  quiet,  more  heavenly 
than  a  smile,  hovered  around  Ms  mouth  ;'the  very  winds  of 
morning  seemed  unholy  for  disturbing  the  solemn  stillness  that 
lay  upon  him. 

Once  more  I  passed  the  threshold  of  my  father's  house — the 
threshold  upon  which  I  had  slept  a  child-beggar  and  an  infant 
outcast  ;  for  the  first  time  I  trod  over  the  spot  not  only  with 
out  bitterness,  but  in  humility  of  soul.  I  followed  the  dead 
body  of  my  father,  whose  love  I  had  repulsed,  whose  repentance 
I  had  rejected.  That  one  idea  drove  all  the  evil  blood  from 
my  heart.  I  would  have  crept  after  him  on  my  knees  before 
every  proud  remnant  of  his  race,  could  the  act  have  appeased 
this  thought  within  me. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning,  so  early  that  not  even  a  servant 
was  astir.  The  men  trod  lightly  over  the  marble  vestibule  and 
up  the  broad  staircase  ;  after  that  thick  carpets  muffled  their 
steps  ;  and  thus  our  mournful  group  entered  Lord  Clare's  cham 
ber  without  disturbing  a  soul  in  the  house. 

Even  young  Morton,  that  had  been  left  to  watch  with  him 
when  old  Turner  went  away,  was  not  aroused  from  the  deep 
slumber  which  had  overtaken  him,  in  an  easy-chair  wheeled  to  a 
remote  corner  of  the  room. 

Life  had  passed  out,  and  death  entered  the  room,  while  that 
man  slept  on  his  post. 

They  laid  my  father  on  his  bed,  and  then  gathered  in  a  group 
near  the  window,  pallid  and  anxious,  conversing  together.  At 
times  whispers  are  more  distinct  than  words.  I  heard  all.  The 
lawyer  had  a  parchment  roll  still  in  his  hand.  Turner  looked 
wistfully  at  it,  then  at  me. 

"  No,  it  is  of  no  more  value  than  blank  paper,"  said  the  law 
yer,  answering  the  look  ;  "  and  worse,  the  old  will,  which  would 
have  given  Marston  Court  to  young  Morton,  its  rightful 
owner,  was  destroyed  in  anticipation  of  this.  Lady  Catherine 
sweeps  every  thing  !" 

"  It  was  not  that,"  said  Turner,  "  but  his  memory;  let  it  be 
saved  from  idle  gossip.  It  is  only  known  to  us  that  my  lord  left 

15 


338         THE     SHADOWY     DEATH-CHAMBER. 

this  room  last  night.  Why  make  the  manner  or  place  of  his 
death  a  wonder  for  people  that  have  no  right  to  inquire 
about  it  ?" 

"  We  can  be  silent,"  answered  the  lawyer,  looking  at  his  clerk. 

"  Do,  for  the  sake  of  all  who  loved  him;  and  this  parchment, 
it  is  useless  ;  let  us  forget  it.  We  know  that  his  last  wish  was 
to  provide  for  her  poor,  poor  child." 

Turner  beckoned  that  I  should  advance,  as  he  spoke. 

"Zana,"  he  said,  taking  the  parchment,  "he  would  have 
made  you  rich.  In  this  will,  he  left  a  large  property  to  you; 
had  he  lived  only  a  few  minutes  longer,  all  would  have  been 
well.  But  God,  who  has  made  you  an  orphan,  leaves  you  still 
with  old  Turner.  In  this  will,  and  to  me  also,  Lord  Clare 
admits  you  to  be  his  child.  Shall  it  be  £o  proclaimed  ?  So 
far  the  secret  rests  with  us.  Shall  we  darken  his  memory 
with  it  ?" 

Oh,  how  thankful  I  was  for  this  power  to  atone  in  a  little  for 
the  cruelty  of  my  acts  !  For  the  first  time  that  day  tears  came 
to  my  eyes. 

"  Save  his  memory,"  I  said  ;  "  let  me  remain  an  outcast.  No 
word  or  look  of  mine  shall  darken  his  name." 

This  resolution  reconciled  me  somewhat  to  myself.  I  stole 
toward  the  bed,  and  through  my  tears  gazed  upon  that  marble 
face. 

"  Oh,  my  father,  can  you  hear  me?"  I  murmured.  "It  is 
your  child — not  the  demon  who  refused  to  forgive — but  you 
are  forgiven.  In  eternity  you  have  seen  the  wronged  one,  and 
instead  of  curses  she  has  filled  your  immortality  with  blessings. 
I  see  them  upon  this  face,  that  in  its  ineffable  calm  forgives  even 
me,  who  was  implacable." 

The  broken  sobs  and  murmurs  in  which  I  uttered  these 
words  of  grief  awoke  young  Morton,  who  arose  and  came 
toward  the  window.  Turner  advanced. 

"  Let  some  one  arouse  the  family,  the  Earl  of  Clare  is  dead." 

Morton  turned  deathly  pale,  and  almost  staggered  as  he 
went  out  to  perform  this  mournful  duty. 


A     VISIT     TO     MY     AECH     ENEMY.  339 


CHAPTER   XL VI. 

A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY. 

DIRECTLY  the  chamber  was  filled.  Weeping  domestics 
crowdec^the  ante-room.  Lady  Catherine  and  her  son  stood  by 
the  death  couch  ;  the  mother  lost  in  noisy  grief ;  the  young 
man  white  and  tearless  as  the  dead  face  upon  which  he  gazed. 

As  Lady  Catherine  removed  the  embroidered  handkerchief 
from  her  face,  her  eyes  fell  upon  me  ^where  I  stood  by  the 
window  near  the  strange  lawyer.  Her  face  flushed,  and  she 
came  toward  us. 

"  How  long  has  this  girl  been  in  Lord  Clare's  chamber  ? 
How  dare  she  insult  our  grief  by  intruding  here  ?" 

She  spoke  hurriedly,  castmg  eager  glances  at  the  parchment 
which  the  lawyer  still  held. 

"  She  came  with  me — she  saw  him  when  he  died,"  answered 
the  old  man. 

"  And  were  you  here  also  ?"  questioned  Lady  Catherine, 
sharply,  of  the  lawyer. 

He  bowed. 

The  lady  forgot  her  tears  and  the  grief,  which,  at  first,  had 
disturbed  the  sacred  quiet  of  that  death-chamber. 

"  Did  he  send /or  you?"  she  continued. 

"  He  did,  my  lady." 

"  And  for  her  ?"  she  cried,  with  a  disdainful  wave  of  the 
hand  toward  me. 

"  His  last  wish  was  to  see  her." 

This  evasive,  but  lawyer-like  reply,  irritated  her  afresh. 

"  What  is  that  in  your  hand  ?"  she  cried  ;  and  taking  even 
this  wary  man  by  surprise,  she  reached  forth  her  hand,  secured 


340  A     VISIT     TO     MT     ABCH     ENEMY. 

the  parchment,  and  eagerly  unrolled  it.  She  began  to  read  ; 
her  thin  lips  grew  almost  imperceptible  ;  and  her  light  blue 
eyes,  the  most  cruel  color  on  earth,  when  filled  with  malice, 
became  repulsive  as  those  of  a  venomous  reptile.  They  darted 
from  line  to  line,  growing  fiercer  and  more  hideous  each  instant, 
till  her  face  became  perfectly  colorless. 

At  last  her  eyes  dropped  to  the  bottom  of  the  document,  a 
glare  of  delight  shot  from  them,  and  striking  the  parchment 
with  her  open  hands,  she  looked  round  upon  us,  with  a  smile  of 
triumphant  malice,  horrible  in  that  place  and  presence 

"  It  is  not  signed — it  was  not  his  work,  but  youi«  I"  she 
cried,  forgetting  all  respect  for  the  dead  in  her  fiendish 
exultation.  "  Go  forth,  onje  and  all,  your  presence  here  is  an 
insult  1" 

She  waved  her  hand  haughtily.  But  the  lawyer  and  his 
clerk  alone  answered  it.  She  still  pointed  her  finger  toward 
the  door.  Turner  withstood  the  gesture  firmly,  but  still  with 
that  respect  which  men  of  his  class  habitually  render  to  those 
of  superior  station. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  you  have  seen  it  written  by  his  own 
order  that  this  young  girl  was  Lord  Clare's  Child.  Surely  it 
cannot  be  that  you  wish  her  sent  altogether  from  his  dwelling 
while  he  is  lying  there  V 

"  I  deny  it  ;  there  is  no  proof  that  she  is  his  child,"  she 
retorted,  pale  with  anger,  and  casting  a  furtive  look  at  the  bed, 
as  if  she  feared  those  marble  lips  might  move  and  contradict 
her.  "What  proof  is  there  in  an  unsigned  paper  drawn  up  at 
a  distance,  and  without  his  knowledge  ?" 

"  Before  God  and  before  the  dead  1"  answered  Turner,  look 
ing  upward,  and  then  bowing  his  forehead  solemnly  toward  the 
death  couch,  "  Clarence,  Lord  Clare,  told  me  with  his  own  lips, 
not  twelve  hours  ago,  that  this  child,  Zana,  was  his  daughter, 
proven  so  entirely  to  his  satisfaction.  By  his  orders,  and  at 
his  dictation,  I  took  down  all  that  is  in  that  unsigned  will, 
and  myself  carried  it  to  the  lawyer,  who  hastened  to  put  it  in 
form." 


A     VISIT     TO     MT     ARCH     ENEMY.  341 

"It  is  false  ;  had  this  been  true  Lord  Clare  would  have 
signed  it." 

"  He  was  dead  when  we  came  back,"  answered  Turner. 

I  saw  her  lips  move,  those  thin,  pale  lips,  made  a  movement, 
as  if  they  would  have  said,  "Thank  God  I"  But  in  the  awful 
presence  of  death  she  dared  not  force  them  to  utter  the  blas 
phemy  in  words. 

All  this  time  George  Irving  had  been  so  overwhelmed 
by  the  sudden  shock  of  his  uncle's  death,  that  he  seemed 
entirely  unconscious  of  what  was  passing.  But  at  last  the 
sharp  tones  of  his  mother's  voice  aroused  him,  and  he  came 
forward  with  one  hand  slightly  uplifted.  "  Hush  !"  he  said, 
"  this  is  no  place  for  words." 

His  mother  looked  at  him  with  a  half  sneer. 

"  Do  you  know  that  this  creature  and  her  miserable  old 
father  have  been  plotting  to  disgrace  our  name,  to  steal  away 
your  birthright,  George  ?" 

"  I  only  know  that  we  are  in  the  presence  of  death," 
answered  the  young  man,  solemnly.  "  Madam,  let  me  lead  you 
away,  this  agitation  will  make  you  ill." 

"  No — not  while  these  vipers  remain,"  she  answered. 

This  scene  had,  from  the  first,  wounded  me  as  if  every  word 
had  been  a  blow  ;  but  my  heart  received  as  a  blessing  every 
fresh  pang,  for  it  seemed  as  if  by  pain  I  could  make  atonement 
for  all  I  had  inflicted  on  the  dead.  But  I  could  now  no  longer 
endure  it.  Without  a  word,  and  with  one  mournful  glance  at 
the  beautiful  marble  that  had  been  my  father,  I  went  forth 
alone.  Turner  resisted  ;  not  all  the  malice  of  that  bad  woman 
could  move  him  from  the  side  of  that  death-couch — command 
and  insult  were  alike  futile.  Until  the  day  of  the  funeral  the 
old  man  remained  by  his  master,  still  as  a  shadow,  faithful  as 
truth. 

It  was  a  miserable  time  with  me  after  this.  I  wandered 
around  that  dwelling  like  a  haunting  and  haunted  spirit.  They 
had  laid  my  father  out  in  state,  and  the  meanest  villager  could 
pass  in  and  look  upon  him  ;  but  I,  his  only  child,  driven  away 


342  A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY. 

like  a  dog,  could  only  look  upon  the  walls  that  held  him  afar 
off,  and  through  blinding  tears.  Still  I  said  to  myself  it  is 
right.  Let  me  have  patience  with  this  cruelty — I  who  would 
not  be  merciful,  who  refused  forgiveness,  as  if  I  were  a  god  to 
judge  and  avenge,  should  learn  to  suffer.  With  the  memory 
of  his  death  green  in  my  heart,  I  thought  that  the  bitterness  of 
my  nature  was  all  gone,  and  gloried  like  a  martyr  in  the  perse 
cutions  that  threatened  me. 

At  last  I  grew  weary  with  watching.  Maria  strove  to  com 
fort  me,  but  her  own  kind  heart  was  full  of  grief,  and  we  could 
only  weep  together  and  wish  for  old  Turner. 

But  we  had  friends  who  did  not  quite  forsake  us,  though  it 
was  known  that  even  sympathy  in  our  sorrow  would  be  held  as 
a  cause  of  offence  with  Lady  Catherine,  who  was  now  a  peeress 
in  her  own  right,  and  lady  of  Greenhurst. 

The  curate  and  my  precious  Cora  came  to  us  at  once.  They 
had  seen  Turner  at  his  post,  and  knowing  the  danger,  came 
without  concealment  to  comfort  us.  Cora  did  not  seem  well. 
Her  sweet  mouth  was  unsteady,  as  if  with  more  than  sudden 
grief.  Those  pale  blue  shadows  lay  beneath  her  beautiful  eyes, 
that  I  could  never  see  without  a  feeling  that  an  overflow  of 
tears  had  left  them  there. 

She  was  very  gentle,  and  affectionate  as  a  child,  striving 
with-  her  pretty  ways  and  sweet  words  to  win  me  from  the 
sternness  of  my  grief.  I  felt  this  gratefully,  but  had  no  power 
to  express  the  sense  that  I  really  felt  of  her  kindness.  As  one 
answers  and  feels  the  pity  of  a  child,  I  received  the  sympathy 
that  she  came  to  give.  Would  that  it  had  been  otherwise, 
would  that  I  had  treated  her  as  a  woman  full  of  rich,  shy, 
womanly  feelings  ;  in  that  time  of  confidence  and  tears  she 
might  have  been  won  to  trust  in  me  entirely.  But  there  was 
the  old  feeling  of  suspicion  in  my  heart.  We  shared  our  tears 
together,  but  nothing  else.  The  sweet,  motherless  girl  had  no 
encouragement  to  open  her  heart,  even  if  it  had  been  her  wish. 
In  the  selfishness  of  my  grief  I  forgot  everything  else. 

With  Mr.  Clark  it  was  otherwise.     His  counsels,  his  gentle- 


A     VISIT      TO     MT     ARCH     ENEMY.  343 

ness  and  patience  were  so  true,  so  beautifully  sincere,  that  I 
could  not  but  yield  to  them.  I  told  him  all — my  night  at 
Marstoii  Court,  the  papers  which  Chaleco  had  unearthed,  and 
my  last,  cruel  interview  with  Lord  Clare.  But  the  good  man 
could  give  me  no  counsel  here.  His  life  had  been  too  isolate, 
too  tranquil  for  power  to  cope  with,  or  even  understand  these 
wild  events.  He  was  shocked  by  the  revengeful  character  of 
Chaleco,  and  urged  me  with  tears  never  to  see  this  man 
again. 

"  Come  to  us,"  said  the  good  man — "  come  and  learn  to  love 
God  peacefully  with  Cora  and  your  old  friend.  The  little  par 
sonage  is  large  enough  ;  it  held  three  once,  you  know,"  he 
added,  with  tender  mournfulness  ;  "  and  I  sometimes  think 
Cora  still  pines  for  her  mother,  as  I  do.  Our  home  is  very  sad 
of  late  years,  and  you  seldom  come  now,  Zana." 

"  I  will  come  to  you»  more  than  ever  if  they  will  let  me,"  I 
answered,  touched  by  his  sadness,  and  filled  with  remorse,  for 
having,  in  a  great  degree,  forsaken  his  dwelling  the  moment  a 
jealous  doubt  of  Cora  entered  my  mind. 

"  Drive  all  this  wild  man's  advice  from  your  mind,"  continued 
he  ;  "  see  how  it  embittered  the  last  moments  of  your  father's 
life — those  precious  moments  which  God  had  bestowed  that 
they  might  be  filled  with  paternal  blessings.  Flee  from  this 
evil  man,  Zana." 

There  was  something  in  the  simplicity  and  gentleness  with 
which  this  advice  was  given  that  touched  my  heart  ;  while  a 
haughty  faith  in  my  own  more  daring  character  made  me 
receive  it  with  forbearance  rather  than  respect.  But  just  then 
all  opposition  was  passive  in  my  bosom.  I  was  silent,  and  he 
thought  me  convinced. 

In  some  things  this  strangely  good  man  was  fall  of  resolu 
tion,  strong  in  courage.  When  I  expressed  a  wish  to  see  my 
father  again,  before  the  tomb  was  closed  on  him  forever,  he 
offered  at  once  to  lead  me  to  his  side.  I  did  not  dream  that 
this  act  of  Christian  courage  would  harm  him,  though  he.  knew 
it  well  enough.  It  was  a  fatal  step,  but  how  could  I  compre- 


344  A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY. 

hend  that  the  hatred  sure  to  follow  me  would  be  felt  by  all  who 
regarded  my  forlorn  state  with  kindness  ? 

I  saw  my  father  once  more  in  the  dead  of  night,  when  no  one 
watched  beside  him  save  old  Turner.  Mr.  Clark  went  with 
me,  and  the  two  men,  my  sole  supporters  on  earth,  left  me 
alone  in  the  funeral  chamber. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  anguish,  the  sting  of  con 
science  which  held  me  chained  to  that  death-couch.  I  knelt 
beneath  the  dim  rays  of  light  that  gleamed  like  starbeams 
among  the  black  draperies,  and  made  an  effort  to  pray.  Was 
it  my  imagination,  or  did  those  fearful  rubies  burn  in  my  ears  ? 
I  could  not  pray. 

As  I  rose  from  my  knees  with  an  oppression  on  my  chest  and 
brain,  that  held  me  as  in  fetters  of  iron,  the  masses  of  black 
velvet  that  fell  from  the  tall  ebony  couch  on  which  the  lord  o£ 
Greenhurst  was  laid,  shook  heavily,  parted,  and  in  the  dusky 
opening  I  saw  the  head  of  Chaleco.  The  face  was  half  in 
shadow,  but  those  eyes  and  the  gleaming  teeth  were  full  of 
sinister  triumph. 

He  reached  forth  one  hand,  removed  the  linen  from  Lord 
Clare's  face,  and  whispered  in  his  native  Rommany. 

"  Look  on  your  mother's  murderer,  woman  of  the  Caloes — 
look  for  the  last  time.  He  has  covered  your  face  with  shame, 
driven  you  forth  from  his  people.  Come  to  us,  it  is  time.  The 
tribes  of  Granada  know  that  the  true  blood  has  avenged  itself 
here.  They  will  recognize  those  symbols  of  Papita,  their  pro 
phetess — they  will  forgive  the  base  blood  in  your  heart,  and  you 
shall  be  a  queen  to  them.  Chaleco  promises." 

With  an  effort  that  seemed  like  a  wrench  on  every  nerve  in 
my  body,  I  turned  away  my  eyes  from"  the  dark  head  of  the 
gipsy  count,  and  they  rested  on  the  holy  stillness  of  my  father's 
death-sleep.  The  light  gleamed  over  him  ;  the  sublime  repose 
of  his  features  had  deepened  till  he  almost  smiled.  Contrasted 
with  that  heavenly  face,  Chaleco  seemed  a  demon  tempting 
me. 

I  fell  upon  my  knees  once  more.     The  weight  left  my  brain 


A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY.  345 

and  chest.  Tears  are  sometimes  sweeter  and  more  holy  than 
prayer.  I  wept  freely. 

When  I  arose,  Chaleco  stood  beside  me,  but  the  power  of  his 
fierce  eyes  was  gone.  The  unnatural  influence  that  he  had 
obtained  over  me  was  lost  in  the  more  sublime  impressions  left 
by  that  tranquil  face. 

"  Go,"  I  said,  gently  ;  "  I  am  not  prepared  to  follow  yet." 

"  Wait  till  these  gentiles  spurn  you  away  then  !"  he 
answered,  in  a  fierce  whisper  ;  "  they  will  do  it.  No  fear,  I 
can  wait." 

"  God  only  knows  what  they  will  do,"  I  said;  "  but  I  was  not 
made  for  an  avenger.  Children  do  not  turn  and  rend  those 
who  gave  them  life.  Look  there,  how  he  smiles,  and  yet 
I  killed  him.  You  call  this  vengeance — it  is  murder  !" 

"  Fool  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  fool  1  but  wait,  wait  1" 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  me  as  if  to  forbid  any  movement; 
and  going  to  an  antique  cabinet  which  I  remembered  well, 
began  to  search  in  its  drawers.  I  saw  him  take  out  two  or 
three  articles  which  he  thrust  in  his  bosom,  then  with  a  dark 
look  toward  the  bed  he  disappeared.  I  know  not  how,  for  when 
I  would  have  stopped  his  progress  the  velvet  drapery  swayed 
between  me  and  him,  as  if  dashed  down  with  a  sweep  of  his 
arm.  When  I  searched  behind  that,  he  was  gone. 

On  the  next  day  my  father  was  buried.  I  did  not  attempt 
to  join  the  procession,  or  force  myself  on  the  notice  of  those 
who  had  assembled  to  render  the  last  honors  to  his  memory. 
Strangers  could  walk  close  by  his  bier  ;  I  looked  on  like  a  wild 
animal  through  the  thick  trees  that  concealed  me.  It  was  a 
bitter  thought,  and  something  of  old  resentments  kept  me 
dumb  as  the  funeral  train  swept  by. 

I  think  it  was  three  or  four  days  after  Lord  Clare's  funeral, 
when  Turner  received  a  message  from  the  Hurst.  He  seemed 
troubled,  but  made  an  evident  effort  to  appear  unconcerned.  I 
saw  him  go  with  misgivings,  for  late  events  had  left  me  in  a 
state  of  nervousness  that  detected  evils  in  every  shadow.  My 
presentiments  were  right.  Lady  Clare,  the  new  countess,  before 

15* 


346  A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY. 

leaving  for  her  London  house,  among  some  other  old  and  favor 
ite  servants,  coldly  ordered  the  old  man  away,  unless  he  would 
send  me,  her  brother's  orphan,  from  beneath  his  roof.  Other 
changes  were  about  to  be  made.  The  Marston  Court  living, 
which  had  been  vacant  more  than  a  year,  and  which  controlled 
that  of  Greenhurst,  was  given  to  Mr.  Upham,  who  had  taken 
orders  and  would  assume  it  at  once.  This  man  now  held  Cora's 
father  in  his  power. 

Everywhere  was  I  hedged,  in  and  surrounded  by  foes ;  an 
Ishmaelitish  feeling  took  possession  of  me  amid  my  grief.  The 
only  friends  that  clung  to  me  on  earth  were  driven  forth  like 
dogs,  because  they,  gave  me  shelter.  I  knew  well  that  Turner 
would  not  hesitate  ;  that  he  would  beg  by  the  way-side  rather 
than  forsake  the  poor  foundling  he  had  cherished  so  long. 

But  he  was  now  an  old  man,  united  to  a  woman  scarcely 
more  capable  of  working  her  way  through  ordinary  life  than  a 
child.  Should  I  permit  him  to  be  thus  unhoused  and  thrust 
into  new  phases  of  life  that  I  might  share  his  little  means  of 
comfort  ?  He  loved  our  beautiful  old  dwelling.  To  send  him 
from  among  the  trees  of  that  park  would  end  like  uprooting 
the  oldest  oak  there.  Not  for  me — not  for  me  should  this  be 
done  I 

But  Cora  and  her  father,  they  had  offered  me  a  share  in  that 
pretty  home  by  the  church.  This  thought,  for  an  instant,  gave 
me  pleasure  ;  but  was  not  the  good  man  also  dependent  on  a 
friend  of  Lady  Catherine's  ?  I  had  almost  said  menial — for 
the  soul  renders  baser  services,  sometimes,  than  the  bare  hands 
can  give.  Was  not  he  also  indirectly  at  the  mercy  of  this  new 
countess  ? 

All  night  long  I  thought  over  these  bitter  reflections,  and, 
spite  of  myself,  an  indignant  sense  of  oppression — cruel,  unde 
served  oppression,  filled  my  soul.  The  iron  of  my  nature  broke 
up  through  the  soil  that  had  covered  it  for  a  time.  The  sibyl's 
ear-rings  grew  precious  to  me.  If  cast  out  from  one  race,  they 
were  burning  links  which  drew  me  to  the  darker  and  fiercer 
people,  to  whom  persecution  was  an  inheritance. 


A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY.  347 

I  arose  in  the  morning  and  went  to  Greenhurst.  The  coun 
tess  would  have  had  me  driven  from  her  steps  had  I  desired 
admission  ••  but,  well  aware  of  this,  I  entered  alone,  unan 
nounced,  and  made  my  way  to  her  dressing-room. 

The  contrasts  in  that  woman's  character  were  most  repulsive. 
While  her  aims  were  all  deep  and  cruel  as  the  grave,  their  ex 
hibition  was  always  toned  down  by  conventionalisms.  While 
planning  the  ruin  of  a  fellow  creature,  she  would  sit  quietly 
curling  the  hair  of  her  lapdog,  as  if  that  only  occupied  her 
mind. 

When  I  entered  her  presence,  she  rose  hastily  from  the 
depths  of  an  easy-chair,  in  which  she  had  been  buried,  and 
arranged  the  folds  of  a  violet  silk  dressing-gown,  with  what 
seemed  fastidious  regard  to  the  effect  her  delicate  attempt  at 
mourning  would  have  upon  the  young  gipsy.  I  was  surprised 
at  this.  It  seemed  impossible  that  a  woman  so  relentless 
could  occupy  herself  with  trivial  attempts  at  display  like  this. 
Now,  it  seems  the  most  natural  thing  on  earth.  Inordinate 
vanity  and  a  savage  want  of  feeling  have  linked  themselves 
together  through  all  history.  The  bad  man  or  woman  is  almost 
invariably  a  vain  one. 

I  think  the  woman  took  a  mean  pleasure  in  making  her  dog 
bark  at  me,  for  her  hand  was  playing  about  his  ears,  and  a 
hateful  smile  warped  her  lips  as  his  snarling  yelp  died  into  a 
howl. 

I  took  »o  heed,  but  walked  up  to  her  chair  and  rested  one 
hand  upon  it.  She  shrunk  back. 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  "  you  have  made  it  a  condition  with  Mr. 
Turner  that  he  shall  thrust  me  from  his  door.  Because  he 
rejects  this  you  wish  to  drive  him  from  the  estate.  He  refuses 
no  longer ;  I  have  come  to  inform  you  of  this.  To-morrow  you 
will  have  rendered  your  brother's  child  homeless." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  the  woman,  haughtily — "very  glad  that 
Turner  has  come  to  his  senses.  No.  one  wishes,  of  course,  to 
send  him  away;  he  is  a  good  servant  enough  ;  but  we  cannot 
make  that  pretty  cottage  a  nest  for  impostors.  So  long  as  he 


34:8  A     VISIT     TO     MY     AKOH     ENEMY. 

lives  there  quietly  and  alone  with  his  old  wife,  it  does  not 
signify,  though  I  had  a  funcy  for  tearing  the  place  down.  But 
he  must  not  harbor  objectionable  people  ;  give  him  to  under 
stand  this  before  you  go.  Above  all  things,  strolling  gipsies 
and  their  children  must  be  kept  from  the  estate.  He  will 
understand  !" 

"  Madam,  have  I  your  promise  that  Mr.  Turner  shall  remain 
in  his  old  place  so  long  as  I  keep  from  his  house  ?"  I  ques 
tioned. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  answered,  smoothing  the  dog's  ear  over 
her  finger  ;  "  he  is  a  good  old  man  enough.  No  one  will  dis 
turb  him,  unless  my  son's  bride  should  take  a  distaste  to  his 
ugliness  when  she.  comes  down." 

I  received  the  sidelong  glance  of  her  eyes  as  she  said  this 
without  flinching,  and  she  went  on. 

"  Estelle  has  fastidious  fancies  in  such  things.  Now,  I  think 
of  it,  she  may  be  in  want  of  a  clever  maid.  Did  she  not 
approve  of  your  talent  in  that  way,  once  ?  If  the  situation 
would  keep  you  from  want,  I  have  no  earthly  objection." 

"  Madam  !"  said  I,  standing  upright  and  speaking,  as  it  were 
a  prophecy,  for  the  words  were  not  formed  by  a  moment's 
thought — "  madam,  when  I  come  back  to  Greenhurst,  I  shall 
be  its  mistress,  not  a  servant." 

She  turned  white  with  rage,  and  clenched  her  fingers  fiercely 
among  the  thick  curls  of  her  spaniel,  which  lay  crouched  in  her 
lap,  eyeing  me  like  a  rattlesnake. 

As  I  spoke,  a  low  laugh  reached  my  ear  from  a  window  ; 
and,  for  an  instant,  I  saw  the  face  of  Chaleco  looking  in 
through  the  curtains.  Lady  Clare  cowered  back  in  her  seat,, 
frightened  by  the  glance  that  I  fixed  upon  her,  by  my  words 
and  the  fiendish  glee  of  that  laugh. 

''  Go,"  she  said,  at  last,  "leave  the  estate,  you  and  your  old 
supporter  ;  root  and  branch  you  shall  all  be  exterminated." 

A  noise  at  the  window,  a  flatter  of  silk,  and  Chaleco  stood 
by  me. 

"  No,  madam,"  he  sa;d,  "  she,  shall  go  because  it  is  the  will 


A     VISIT     TO     MY     AKOH     ENEMY.  349 

of  her  people  ;  but  as  for  that  old  man,  touch  but  the  dog  he 
loves  at  your  peril  1" 

"  What  are  you  ?"  faltered  the  lady,  gathering  up  her 
spaniel  in  an  agony  of  terror.  "  How  came  you  in  this 
place  ?" 

11 1  have  been  here  before,"  said  Chaleco. 

"  When  ?" 

"  On  the  night  Lord  Clare's  wife  died."  He  stooped  down 
whispering  the  words  in  her  ear.  "  If  a  hair  of  that  old 
man's  head  suffers  for  his  kindness  to  this  child,  I  will  come 
again." 

"  I  promise,"  she  faltered. 

"Bah,  I  want  no  promise;  your  white  face  is  truer  than  a 
false  tongue.  You  dare  not  touch  him — we  of  the  Caloes  have 
soft  steps  and  potent  drinks.  We  know  how  to  wait,  but  in 
the  end  those  who  tread  on  us  are  stung." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  that,"  she  answered  bitterly,  strug 
gling  with  her  terror. 

"  Be  cautious  then  ;  you  who  owe  this  vast  property  to  us 
should  be  considerate  !" 

"  To  you  ?— to  you  ?" 

"Yes,  to  us.  Had  not  Lady  Clare  'drank  too  freely  of 
harmless  cold  water — had  not  Lord  Clare  known  it,  and  so 
tortured  himself  to  death,  where  would  your  chances  of  property 
have  been  ?" 

"  And  you  did  this  ?"  cried  the  woman,  aghast. 

"  Who  else  ?  The  gentiles  have  no  relish  for  vengeance, 
they  swallow  it  at  a  mouthful — we  take  a  life-time  for  one 
meal — don't  make  us  hungry  again  I" 

Chaleco  turned  away  with  a  scornful  .smile,  and,  stooping  to 
my  ear,  whispered, 

"  At  Marston  Court  to-night,  I  shall  wait !" 

He  glided  toward  the  window,  lifted  the  curtain,  and  was 
gone  before  Lady  Clare  knew  that  he  had  moved  ;  for,  over 
come  with  cowardly  terror,  she  had  buried  her  face  in  the 
cushions  of  her  easy-chair, 


350  A     VISIT     TO     MY     ARCH     ENEMY. 

I  did  not  wait  for  her  to  look  up,  but  left  the  room,  satisfied 
that  my  poor  old  benefactor  was  saved  from  all  attempts  at 
persecution. 

I  went  to  the  parsonage  after  this,  where  I  might  be  another 
day — what  course  of  life  would  be  mine  was  uncertain,  all  that 
I  knew  was  that  my  life  at  Greenhurst  had  ended. 

Thus  tortured  in  its  affections,  my  poor  heart  turned  with 
longing  tenderness  toward  Cora,  the  only  child  companion  I 
had  ever  known.  I  would  see  her,  and  with  my  secret  kept 
close,  have  the  joy  of  one  mere  loving  interview.  My  heart 
grew  gentle  with  tenderness  as  I  approached  the  house.  She 
was  not  at  the  window.  An  air  of  strange  gloom  pervaded  the 
place.  I  entered  the  parlor  ;  it  had  not  been  swept  that  day  ; 
books,  drawings,  and  Cora's  guitar  lay  huddled  together  on 
the  table ;  all  the  blinds  were  closed  but  one,  and  that  was  kept 
in  constant  motion  by  the  wind,  now  letting  in  gushes  of  light, 
again  filling  the  room  with  shadows. 

In  a  dim  corner  stood  Mr.  Clark's  easy-chair  with  the  back 
toward  me.  I  approached  it  and  leaned  over.  There  sat  the 
curate  exactly  as  he  had  the  morning  of  his  wife's  death,  pale, 
tearless,  the  most  touching  picture  of  grief  that  I  ever  saw. 

I  looked  around  for  the  cause.  Where  was  Cora,  and  her 
father  in  this  state  ?  I  ran  to  her  room  ;  it  was  empty.  Into 
the  kitchen  ;  the  servant  sat  moping  by  a  dresser.  She  did  not 
know  what  had  come  over  her  master,  or  where  Miss  Cora  was. 
He  had  not  spoken  a  word  or  eaten  a  mouthful  since  she  went 
out. 

Sick  at  heart,  I  went  back  to  the  parlor,  and,  kneeling  by  the 
good  man,  took  his  hand  in  mine. 

"  Speak  to  me  !"  I  said;  "  oh,  speak — what  has  happened  ? 
Why  are  you  thus  ?"  0 

He  looked  on  me  as  he  had  done  that  first  day  in  his  grief, 
laid  his  hand  on  my  head,  and  burst  into  tears.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  put  one  hand  into  his  bosom,  took  out  a  letter  and 
attempted  to  unfold  it.  But  his  poor  hands  shook  so  nervously 
that  the  paper  only  rattled  in  his  grasp. 


A     VISIT     TO     MY      A.EOH     ENEMY.  351 

With  painful  forebodings  I  took  it  from  his  hand.  I  did  not 
read  it  all,  for  a  sickness  of  heart  came  over  and  blinded  me  ; 
but  enough  was  plain  ;  Cora  Clark,  my  little  Cora  had  left  her 
father's  house  to  be  married — so  she  wrote — and  her  companion 
— who  was  he  ? 

George  Irving  left  Clare  Hall  on  the  very  night  that  letter 
was  written.  She  mentioned  no  names,  but  this  was  a  part  that 
all  might  read. 

Mr.  Clark  looked  wearily  at  me  as  I  read  the  letter.  His 
lips  moved,  and  he  said  in  a  meek,  broken-hearted  voice, 

"  What  can  we  do,  Zana  ?" 

"  We  will  find  her — love  her — take  her  home  again,"  I  said. 
"  Cora  shall  not  remain  with  this  villain,  even  as  his  wife  !" 

"  I  fear,"  said  Mr.  Clark,  looking  meekly  in  my  face,  "  God 
has  taken  away  my  strength — I  cannot  follow  them." 

He  arose  to  his  feet,  but  staggered  feebly  and  fell  back  again, 
helpless  as  a  child. 

"  I  will  find  her.  Get  well  and  wait  patiently,  father,  I  will 
not  rest  till  Cora  is  at  home  again." 

"  God  bless  you  my  child!" 

He  kissed  me  on  the  forehead,  and  with  this  holy  seal  upon 
my  brow,  I  went  forth  from  among  my  father's  people  an  out 
cast,  an  Ishmael  among  women,  but  strong  to  act  and  to  endure. 


352  MT     LOST     FRIEND 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

MY  LOST  FRIEND  AND  MY  LOST  HOME. 

I  HAD  made  all  my  preparations,  packed  up  a  few  clothes, 
such  as  I  could  carry  upon  the  horn  of  my  saddle,  and  carefully 
sealed  up  the  bronze  coffer,  which  was  half  full  of  gold.  Turner 
had  been  absent  most  of  the  day,  and  Maria,  luckily,  was  at 
the  village,  for  some  household  purpose.  All  this  was  fortunate. 
Knowing  that  a  few  hours  would  separate  us,  perhaps  forever, 
I  could  not  have  sustained  my  part  in  their  presence. 

When  they  came  home  my  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and 
I  sat  down  helplessly  between  them,  so  sick  at  heart  that  it 
seemed  to  me  like  death.  They  had  heard  of  Cora's  elopement, 
and  did  not  wonder  at  my  grief. 

We  parted  for  the  night  about  ten.  Oh,  how  I  yearned  to 
throw  myself  once  more  into  those  kind  arms  and  ask  a  last 
blessing  1  But  it  could  not  be.  A  suspicion  that  1  was  about 
to  leave  them  would  have  defeated  my  plans.  I  knew  well  that 
they  would  go  forth  into  the  highway  homeless  beggars  rather 
than  see  me  so  depart. 

With  calm  sadness,  though  my  heart  swelled  painfully  in  my 
bosom,  I  went  to  my  room.  Oh,  that  dull,  mournful  hour  of 
solitude  while  I  waited  for  those  two  friends,  all  I  had  on  earth, 
to  sleep,  that  I  might  escape  like  a  thief  from  beneath  their 
roof.  I  shall  never  forget  that  hour.  A  life-time  of  dreary 
pain  was  crowded  into  it.  Remember  I  was  very  young,  and 
could  only  recall  as  a  dream  the  time  when  that  park  had  not 
been  my  home. 

True,  I  had  a  purpose  that  gave  me  strength.  Cora  must  be 
brought  back  to  her  father  ;  then  what  was  to  be  my  fate  ? 
The  gipsy  caves  of  Granada — those  caves  at  whose  bare  remem- 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  353 

brance  my  poor  mother  had  shuddered  even  in  the  zenith  of  her 
happiness?  But  where  else  should  I  go?  Ishmael  was  not 
more  thoroughly  cast  out  by  his  father's  people  than  I  had  been 
— while  more  fortunate  than  me,  his  mother  went  with  him  into 
the  desert.  I  was  alone.  In  the  broad  world  there  was  no 
human  being  from  whom  I  could  claim  the  draught  of  cold 
water  which  poor  Hagar  gave  to  him. 

I  went  forth,  braving  all  the  woes  that  were  divided  by  the 
outcast  mother  and  her  child.  The  rival  that  I  had  loved  bet 
ter  than  a  sister  had  taken  the  soul  that  was  mine,  and  cruelly 
left  me  to  perish  or  to  suffer  ;  it  mattered  as  little  which  to  her 
as  it  did  to  Sarah,  that  her  handmaid  died  in  the  wilderness,  or 
passed  heart-broken  into  the  desert  Driven  forth  from  my 
last  shelter  by  my  father's  sister,  hunted  down  like  an  evil 
thing,  I  felt  like  the  poor  stag  which  I  had  once  saved  from  the 
very  foes  that  seemed  chasing  me  to  death.  As  I  sat  there 
alone  in  my  pretty  chamber,  with  the  coffer  in  my  lap,  and  the 
bundle  at  my  feet,  I  thought  of  the  stone  cairn  beneath  which 
my  mother  lay,  deep  in  the  snow  mountains,  and  wished  that  I 
too  were  under  it. 

Everything  was  still.  Nothing  but  the  faint  flutter  of  autumn 
leaves  as  they  fell  to  the  earth  reached  my  ear.  Yes,  one  thing 
more,  the  beatings  of  my  poor  heart  sounded  loud  and  quick  in 
the  stillness,  like  the  laugh  of  winter  winds  when  they  rustle 
through  masses  of  dead  foliage, 

I  got  up  at  last — oh,  with  what  heaviness  of  heart  and  limb. 
With  the  coffer  in  one  hand,  and  the  bundle  in  the  other,  I 
passed  like  a  ghost  from  my  beautiful  chamber,  leaving  it  bathed 
in  the  autumn  moonbeams,  all  the  more  quiet  that  a  weary 
heart  had  gone  out  of  it. 

I  went  through  the  little  picture  gallery.  The  moonlight 
threw  my  black  shadow  on  the  lovely  pictures  and  statuettes, 
veiling  them,  as  it  were,  in  mourning  at  my  approach.  As  I 
looked  back  through  my  tears,  they  were  poised  gracefully  as 
ever,  and  smiling  in  the  pale  lightj  heartless  as  my  human  friends. 
It  was  only  in  my  path  that  the  darkness  fell. 


354:  MY      LOST     FRIEND 

One  moment  I  paused  at  the  door  of  Turner's  room.  I  held 
my  breath,  listening  at  the  key-hole  for  the  faintest  noise.  A 
sigh  from  those  loved  sleepers  would  have  fallen  upon  my  heart 
like  a  blessing.  Nothing  reached  me — nothing  but  the  sound 
of  the  wind,  which  was  beginning  to  sob  among  the  leaves  out 
of  doors. 

As  I  listened,  something  rubbed  against  my  ankle,  and  the 
soft  purr  of  a  house  cat,  whose  instinct  had  recognized  me  in  the 
dark,  made  me  utter  a  faint  exclamation.  I  stooped  down  and 
caressed  the  kind  animal  a  moment,  then  hurried  away,  fearful 
that  my  sobs  would  arouse  Turner.  The  cat  followed  me  to  the 
stable,  and  looked  on  while  I  saddled  Jupiter  with  a  sort 
of  grave  wonder,  which  seemed  to  me  like  regret.  She  watched 
me  as  I  fastened  my  bundle  and  mounted  the  poor  old  pony. 
When  I  rode  away,  looking  wistfully  back  at  the  house,  she 
kept  her  place  till  I  could  no  longer  distinguish  her. 

I  believe  it  was  a  beautiful  night  ;  certainly  the  moon  was  at 
its  full,  and  the  sky  crowded  with  stars,  luminous  with  that  deep 
glow  which  precedes  an  early  frost.  Without  being  boisterous, 
the  wincl  filled  the  leaves  with  their  mournful  whispers,  and  the 
fragrance  of  broken  leaves  and  forest  flowers,  that  always 
breathe  sweetest  as  the  frost  kills  them,  floated  silently  on  the 
air,  saddening  the  atmosphere  with  the  perfume  of  their  decay. 

I  received  all  these  impressions  passively,  for  my  heart  was 
too  heavy  for  anything  but  that  dull  consciousness  which  is 
blunted  by  pain.  All  the  way  I  was  comparing  myself  with 
the  boy  Ishmael,  and  thinking  of  Hagar  with  yearning  sympa 
thy,  such  as  a  woman  only  who  has  been  wronged  and  cast 
forth  into  that  great  desert  the  world  can  feel. 

I  reached  Marston  Court,  but  the  imposing  beauty  of  those 
walls,  the  picturesque  effect  which  the  broad  moonlight  pro 
duced  among  its  carved  balconies,  broad  eaves,  and  great  entrance 
doors,  made  only  a  dream-like  impression  on  me.  My  heart 
was  full  of  one  thought.  Here  and  now  I  must  part  with  old 
Jupiter  for  ever,  my  last  friend.  I  reached  the  steps,  let  my 
self  down  from  the  saddle,  and  unknotted  my  bundle  with  cold, 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  355 

trembling  fingers,  that  blundered  painfully  in  their  task.  Then 
• — it  was  because  I  wanted  to  prolong  the  moment  of  parting — 
I  knotted  up  the  bridle  short  upon  his  neck,  that  he  might  not 
tread  on  it.  When  this  was  done,  I  stood  a  long  time  with  my 
arm  over  his  neck,  crying  like  a  child.  Poor  old  fellow  !  when 
I  stood  up  and  shook  his  bridle,  telling  him  as  well  as  I  could 
for  my  sobs,  to  go  home  again,  he  turned  his  head  and  fell  to 
whimpering,  as  if  he  understood  my  desolation  better  than  any 
human  creature  had  done. 

11  Go,"  I  said,  for  all  the  strength  was  leaving  me.  "  Go 
home,  Jupiter — home  !" 

He  went  tramping  heavily  over  the  tangled  ground  homeward 
as  I  had  commanded.  I  stood  till  he  disappeared  among  the 
thickets,  listening  breathlessly  for  his  last  footfall.  When  that 
came,  I  felt,  for  the  first  time,  how  utterly,  utterly  I  was  alone 
in  the  world.  I  sat  upon  the  steps  of  that  old  house  a  long 
time,  without  thinking  or  caring  what  was  next  to  be  done. 
Perhaps  I  fell  asleep ;  but  at  last  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoul 
der,  and  Chalecb  stood  beside  me. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  this  is  no  place  for  you  ;  the  night  is 
cold." 

"  Is  it  ?"  I  said,  rising  languidly,  "I  did  not  know  it  1" 

"Not  know  it?  Why  you  are  trembling  like  a  willow 
branch  now." 

I  was  indeed  shivering  from  head  to  foot.  My  garments 
rustled  as  I  stood  up,  for  the  dew  upon  them  had  turned  into 
frost. 

Chaleco  had  kindled  a  fire  in  the  huge  chimney  of  his  tower 
room,  and  the  flames  sent  a  thousand  shadows  dancing  among 
the  grotesque  marble  carvings  that  overhung  them.  He  had 
evidently  made  some  preparations  for  my  coming.  A  huge 
easy-chair,  cushioned  with  tarnished  velvet,  stood  on  the  hearth ; 
and  on  a  little  work-table,  with  curiously  twisted  legs,  was  a 
plate  of  biscuit,  and  one  of  those  old-fashioned  goblets  of  Vene 
tian  glass  which  have  since  become  so  rare. 

I  was  about  to  sit  down,  somewhat  cheered  by  the  warmth  ; 


356  MY     LOST     FRIEND 

but  Chaleco  prevented  this,  while  he  shook  the  frost  from  my 
garments  and  carefully  removed  my  bonnet. 

"There,  now,  you  may  warm  yourself  without  being  wet 
through,"  he  said,  kindly;  and  taking  a  silver  cup  from  the 
hearth,  he  filled  the  goblet  with  Bordeaux  wine,  spiced  and 
warm. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  eat  and  drink  ;  then  we  will  have  some 
talk  together." 

I  obeyed  him,  cheered  and  comforted,  spite  of  my  grief. 

"  There,  now  that  you  have  got  a  dash  of  color,  and  have 
ceased  trembling,  tell  me  how  you  got  away.  Did  any  one 
attempt  to  stop  you  ?"  said  Chaleco,  at  length. 

"  No  one  knew — I  ran  away  1" 

He  laughed.  •  _ 

*'  That  was  right — the  old  blood  there.  But  Papita's  money 
. — you  did  not  leave  that  behind  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  it  here.     Do  you  want  it  ?" 

"  I  ?  by  the  Sphinxs  1  no,  it  would  burn  my  soul.  The 
gold  is  yours — everything  in  the  coffer  is  yours.  Papita's 
curse  would  consume  any  other  who  touched  it." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  with  it  ?" 

Chaleco  laughed  till  his  white  teeth  shone  again. 

"  What  can  you  do  with  it  ?"  he  said.  "  Anything,  any 
thing.  It  will  take  you  to  Granada — make  a  queen  of  you." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  So  you  reject  it ;  you  still  despise  the  Caloes  who  would 
adore  you — still  cling  to  the  Gentiles  who  have  spurned  you 
forth  like  a  dog." 

"  Not  so — I  scorn  no  one — I  cling  to  no  one — God  help  me  I 
I  have  nothing  on  earth  to  which  I  can  cling  1" 

"  Your  mother's  people-rare  they  nothing  ?" 

"  They  murdered  her  1"  I  said  with  a  shudder. 

Chaleco  turned  white  ;  his  eyes  fell,  and  he  muttered, 

"  I— I  did  not  do  it  !" 

"  No,  but  they  did,"  I  answered. 

"  It  was  the  law — an  old  law,  made  among  the  people  of 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  357 

Egypt  centuries  ago  ;  no  man  among  us  dares  withstand  the 
law." 

"  But  you  would  have  me  acknowledge  these  laws — enforce 
them?" 

"Our  people  are  ready  ;  go  to  them  with  those  blood-red 
rubies  in  your  ears  ;  give  them  of  Papita's  gold,  and  they  will 
make  you  greater  than  Chaleco — greater  than  Papita  ever 
was." 

Again  I  recoiled  from  the  thought. 

• "  Where  else  will  you  go  ?"  asked  the  gipsy  ;  "  who  else 
will  receive  you  ?  What  other  friend  have  you  on  earth  but 
me — me,  the  man  whom  your  mother  betrayed  ?  Yet  who  has 
spent  his  life  in  guarding  her  child.  If  not  with  your  own  peo 
ple,  where  will  you  go,  Zana  ?" 

Where  could  I  go  ?  Deserted  by  the  whole  world,  who 
would  receive  me  save  the  gipsy  hordes  of  my  mother's  race,  or 
those  to  whom  friendship  for  me  would  bring  ruin  on  them 
selves  ? 

I  did  not  attempt  to  answer.  On  the  broad  earth  that 
strange  gipsy  man  was  the  only  human  being  that  would  not 
turn  away  in  scorn,  or  become  imperilled  by  defending  me. 

"  You  will  go  to  Granada,  Zana  ?"  he  continued,  bending 
over  me  with  paternal  interest.  "  Had- Lord  Clare  but  lived  to 
sign  that  will,  then,  indeed,  you  might  have  remained  here  to 
triumph  over  your  mother's  foes.  Many  of  her  tribe  could 
have  crossed  the  sea  to  render  homage  to  Papita's  great-grand 
child — the  inheritance  of  her  gold,  and  the  symbols  of  her 
power.  In  these  old  'walls,  Zana,  should  your  court  have  been ; 
these  great  oaks  clothing  the  uplands  should  have  sheltered  a 
thousand  tents.  Oh,  Zana,  we  would  have  built  up  a  little 
kingdom  here  in  the  midst  of  o'ur  enemies.  Why  did  you  not 
have  that  will  signed,  Zana  ?  II  was  for  this  we  brought  you 
back  to  England — for  this  you  have  been  left  among  her  de 
stroyers  so  long." 

"Hush  1"  I  said,  shuddering — "hush  !  I  dare  not  think  of 
it.  Great  heavens,  were  all  his  estates  mine  at  this  moment,  I 


358  MY     LOST     FKIEND 

would  give  them  to  forget  that  death-scene.  Thank  God,  he 
did  not  sign  that  will  I" 

"  Bah  !  it  was  a  bad  move — but  let  that  drop.  Granada  is 
still  open,  and  Papita's  gold  will  do  wonders  among  our  people 
there  1" 

"  But  they  are  ignorant,  rude,  untaught.  My  poor  mother 
pined  among  them,  even  before  Lord  Clare  came  to  turn  her 
discontent  into  aversion." 

"  But  they  are  capable  of  learning— they  will  follow  Papita's 
child  in  all  things.  She  has  but  to  will  it,  and  the  young  ones 
of  her  tribe  can  be  wise  and  deeply  read  as  their  queen." 

This  idea  filled  me  with  a  new  life.  Yes,  I  might  be  the 
means  of  improving  this  wild  race.  Perhaps  God  had  permitted 
me  to  be  spurned  and  cast  forth  like  a  rabid  dog  from  among 
the  gentiles,  that  I  might  become  a  benefactor  to  the  Caloes. 
Surely  they  could  not  deal  more  treacherously  by  me  than  my 
father's  people  had  done.  These  thoughts  were  succeeded  by 
a  remembrance  of  Cora,  and  they  gave  way  before  the  great 
duty  that  I  had  imposed  on  myself. 

"  Chaleco,"  I  said,  with  energy  and  decision,  "there  is  yet 
something  for  me  to  do  here.  I  had  a  friend  " 

He  interrupted  me. 

"  I  know  the  parson's  daughter,  a  little  golden-haired,  blue- 
eyed  thing,  that  will  always  be  a  child.  You  would  find  her — 
for  what  ?" 

"  That  she  may  return  to  her  father — that  she  may  be 
saved,"  I  answered. 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  her  go.  What  has  Papita's  child  in  common 
with  this  traitress  ?  What  is  there  worth  loving  in  one  who 
could  become  the  victim  of  a  wily  boy  like  that  ?" 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  forehead  at  this  scornful  mention 
of  the  man  I  had  loved  with  all  the  fervor  of  my  mother's  race, 
and  all  the  pride  of  his.  But  was  he  not  a  traitor  ?  How 
could  I  resent  it,  though  the  swart  gipsy  did  revile  him  ?  But 
the  anger  I  dared  not  form  in  words  broke  out  in  decision  of 
purpose. 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  359 

"Stay  with  me — help  me  till  I  find  Cora — till  I  send  an 
assurance  of  her  marriage  back  to  that  broken-hearted  man, 
and  I  will  then  go  with  you  to  Granada." 

"  Heart  and  soul  ?"  questioned  the  gipsy. 

"  Heart  and  soul  !"  I  replied. 
.  "  You  will  abandon  these  people  ?." 

"  If  you  insist,  I  will."  .  .%: 

"  Then  let  us  linger." 

"  But  where — how  ?"  I  questioned.  "  What  course  can  we 
take  ?" 

"  That  which  they  took — the  way  to  Scotland." 

"  Let  us  start  at  once,"  I  cried,  fired  with  a  thousand  con 
flicting  feelings,  in  which  there  was  jealousy,  doubt,  and  a  gene 
rous  desire  to  rescue  my  friend  ;  but  my  limbs  gave  way 
beneath  all  this  eagerness,  and  I  fell  back  gasping  for  breath. 

"  Not  now — you  must  hafe  rest,  poor  child,"  said  the  gipsy, 
smoothing  my  hair  with  his  palms. 

I  drew  back,  recoiling  from  a  repetition  of  the  mysterious 
influence  which  had  possessed  me  the  last  time  I  was  in  that 
room. 

"  Do  you  fear  me — me,  Chaleco  ?"  he  said,  with  saddened 
eyes. 

"  No  ;  but  let  me  act  independently — let  my  brain  be  clear, 
my  limbs  free — let  my  own  will  control  me — none  other  shall  !" 

He  smiled  quietly,  and  kept  his  softened  eyes  fixed  on  mine. 
I  began  to  struggle  against  the  drowsiness  that  possessed  me  ; 
my  eyelashes  fell  together,  and  I  could  muster  neither  strength 
nor  wish  to  open  them.  A  languid  repose  stole  over  my  limbs^ 
— I  did  not  awake  till  morning,  and  then  Chaleco  stood  before 
me,  holding  an  antique  china  cup  and  saucer  in  his  hand  full  of 
smoking  chocolate. 

"  Drink  I"  he  said,  raking  open  the  embers  ;  "  here  are 
roasted  eggs  and  bread — they  will  give  you  strength." 

I  took  the  cup.  "  When  shall  we  start  ?"  I  asked,  eager  to 
commence  my  search  for  Cora. 

"  Not  till  after  nightfall,"  was  the  reply;   "  one  day  of  entire 


360  MY     LOST     FRIEND 

rest  you  must  have.  Besides,  it  will  not  do  for  us  to  travel  so 
near  Greenhurst  by  day-light." 

My  heart  fell  at  the .  thought  that  no  one  would  trouble 
themselves  about  us — no  one  except  old  Turner,  and  secrecy 
was  the  only  kindness  I  could  render  him. 

After  I  had  breakfasted,  Ohaleco  left  me,  and  all  day  long  I 
wandered  through  the  vast  desolation  of  that  old  building,  as  a 
ghost  might  haunt  the  vaulted  passages  of  a  catacomb. 

The  reaction  of  all  the  exciting  scenes  I  had  passed  though 
was  upon  me,  and  with  dull  apathy  I  strolled  through  those  deso 
lated  chambers,  regardless  of  all  that  would,  in  another  state  of 
mind,  have  filled  my  brain  with  the  keenest  emotions.  Every 
thing  was  so  still  in  the  old  house — the  sunbeams  that  came 
through  the  windows  were  so  dulled  with  accumulated  dust 
upon  the  glass,  that  I  seemed  gliding  through  a  cloudy  twilight 
quietly  as  a  shadow,  and  almost  as  lifeless.  I  literally  cared 
for  nothing  ;  my  heart  beat  so  sluggishly  that  I  could  hardly 
feel  the  life  within  me.  Now  I  remembered  every  object  in  the 
old  .house  with  perfect  distinctness.  Then  everything  ran 
together  like  an  incoherent  dream. 

Night  came,  and  then  I  began  to  wonder  about  Chaleco,  who 
had  been  absent  all  day.  I  had  no  apprehension,  and  but  little 
anxiety;  nothing  just  then  seemed  important  enough  for  me  to 
care  about.  I  thought  even  of  my  father's  death-bed  with  a 
sort  of  stolid  gloom. 

Lifted  high  up  among  the  old  trees,  and  opening  both  to  the 
east  and  west,  the  turret  in  which  I  sat  took  the  last  sunbeams 
in  a  perfect  deluge,  as  they  broke  against  the  tall  windows  and 
shed  their  golden  warmth  all  around  me.  I  knew  that  these 
bright  flashes  came  from  behind  Greenhurst,  and  that  I  might 
never  see  it  more.  This  saddened  me  a  little,  and  a  throb  of 
pain  was  gathering  in  my  bosom  when  Chaleco  came  in.  I  did 
not  know  him  at  first,  so  completely  was  he  changed.  The 
broad  sombrero,  the  tarnished  gold  and  embroidery  of  his  gipsy 
habiliments  were  all  gone.  A  suit  of  quiet  brown,  with  knee- 
buckles  of  gold  and  leggins  of  drab  cloth,  such  as  the  better 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  361 

classes  of  England  wore  on  their  journeys  at  that  time,  had 
quite  transfigured  him.  His  coat-black  beard  was  neatly  trim 
med,  and  though  his  flashing  eyes  and  peculiar  features  bespoke 
foreign  blood,  no  one  would  have  suspected  him  of  being  the 
picturesque  vagrant  he  had  appeared  in  the'  morning. 

"Well,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "are  you  rested  and  quite  ready 
to  start  ?  I  have  been  making  inquiries." 

"  Do  you  still  -intend  going  to  Scotland  ?"  I  asked.  "  What 
have  you  found  out  ?" 

"  That  they  went  north — so  must  we.  Here,  I  have  brought 
some  food — the  dusk  is  gathering — eat  and  let  us  be  off.  Old 
Turner  tracked  your  pony  across  the  park  in  this  direction  ;  he 
may  be  for  searching  the  old  house,  and  then  all  chance  of 
coming  again  will  be  over.  I  would  not  have  this  eagle's  nest 
discovered  for  the  world." 

"But  Lady  Catherine  will  discover  it,"  I  said.  "She  will 
not  leave  the  noble  building  to  fall  away  thus." 

"  I  have  taken  care  of  that.  The  door  leading  to  the  rooms 
below  was  walled  up  when  I  first  came  to  England.  You  have 
not  noticed,  but  the  staircase  winds  down  within  the  walls,  and 
has  a  passage  outward  through  the  wine  vaults.  We  entered 
through  a  great  oak  panel  which  opens  from  the  picture  gallery  j 
close  that  and  no  passage  can  be  found  to  the  turret.  I  have 
formed  a  snug  bower  here,  off  and  on,  ever  since  you  were  left 
in  the  tent,  Zana." 

"  And  were  you  here  then  ?"  I  asked,  remembering  the  suffer 
ing  of  that  period. 

"  No,  I  fled.  Old  Papita's  death  and  her  work  at  the  Hurst 
drove  me  off.  I  went  into  Spain  for  a  little  time — and  then 
farther  still." 

"  And  since  then  have  you  been  always  here  ?" 

He  laughed  in  derision  at  my  ignorance. 

"  What,  a  Caloe  count  of  our  tribe,  and  always  in  one  place  ? 
What  a  child  it  is  !  No,  no,  I  only  found  a  roost  up  in  this 
tower  now  and  then,  long  enough  to  see  how  it  fared  with  you 
and  the  enemy.  I  have  been  a  great  traveller,  Zana,  sometimes 

16 


362  MY     LOST     FRIEND 

on  your  father's  track  for  months  and  months — sometimes 
hovering  over  your  pretty  nest — sometimes  with  our  people  in 
Granada." 

"Why  did  you  follow  Lord  Clare?"  I  inquired,  filled  with 
wonder  and  respect  .for  energies  so  indomitable. 
.  "  That  my  rights  of  vengeance  should  not  be  lost.  I  had 
received  nothing  but  pangs  and  shame.  The  tribe  had  her. 
Papita  swooped  up  Lady  Clare — but  the  greater  criminal,  the 
most  hated  thing  of  all,  was  left  to  me.  No  dog  ever  scented 
his  prey  as  I  tracked  Clarence,  Earl  of  Clare." 

"  What  for  ?"  I  cried,  thrilled  with  a  horrible  suspicion. 
"  Why  did  you  so  hound  out  my  father  ?" 

"Why?"  he  repeated  with  shut  teeth  and  gleaming  eyes. 
"  What  do  we  follow  the  trail  of  a  snake  when  it  has  bitten 
us  for,  but  to  kill  it  ?" 

My  heart  was  seized  as  with  the  talons  of  a  vulture,  as  he 
said  this.  I  remembered  the  subtle  poisons  so  often  mentioned 
in  my  mother's  journal,  and  rapidly  connected  them  with  my 
father's  terrible  appearance  when  he  returned  home  to  die. 
Some  of  these  poisons  I  knew  to  be  of  slow  action,  eating  up 
vitality  from  the  human  system  like  the  sluggish  influence  of 
miasma.  Had  my  noble  father  been  thus  ppisoned,  and  by  the 
man  who  stood  before  me  ? 

I  could  not  speak — the  horrible  thought  paralyzed  me  ;  my 
throat  was  parched  ;  the  breath  panted  and  swelled  in  my 
lungs,  but  I  could  not  draw  a  deep  respiration.  Was  it  indeed 
so  ? — had  I  sought  shelter  with  my  father's  murderer  ?  He 
read  my  thoughts  and  smiled  fiercely. 

"You  are  wrong,"  he  said;  "  I  did  not  do  that,  it  needed 
not  the  drao,  his  own  thoughts  were  enough  "to  poison  a  dozen 
lives  stronger  than  his.  I  watched  him  night  and  day — night 
and  day,  Zana  ;  at  a  distance  sometimes,  but  oftener  close  as  a 
brother  might,  in  those  safe  disguises  "that  our  people  study  so 
well.  Month  after  month  I  was  alone  with  him  in  the  desert 
— on  the  hot  sands  of  Africa — on  the  sluggish  waters  of  the 
Nile.  I  was  his  dragoman,  his  confidential  companion  ;  for 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  363 

in  the  desert,  Zana,  even  that  haughty  being,  an  English 
nobleman,  learns  something  of  that  equality  which  he  is  sure 
to  find  in  the  grave.  Ten  thousand  time*- 1  could  have  killed 
him  like  a  dog,  left  him  in  the  hot  sands  for  the  jackals,  and 
no  one  have  been  the  wiser  ;  but  that  would  have,  been  like  a 
gentile,  who,  in  the  greed  of  his  revenge,  ends  all  with  a  blow. 
It  was  sweeter  to  see  the  flesh  waste  from  his  bones  ;  the  light 
from  his  eyes  ;  and  to  watch  the  death-fires  kindle  in  his 
cheeks,  set  to  blazing  and  fed  by  the  venom  of  his  own 
thoughts.  I  tell  you,  girl,  not  for  the  universe  would  I  have 
shortened  his  misery  for  a  moment.  To  watch  it  was  all  the 
joy  I  have  tasted  since  your  mother's  last  death-wail." 

While  he  spoke,  I  struggled  with  the  breath  driven  back 
upon  my  chest  as  one  wrestles  with  a  nightmare.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  was  given  up  to  the  power  of  a  demon.  At  last  my  voice 
broke  out  so  sharp  and  unnatural  that  it  seemed  like  another 
person's. 

"  Stop,  stop,  I  will  not  endure  this  ;  he  was  my  father — he 
was  not  deserving  of  this  cruel  malice,  this  murderous  revenge. 
He  was  my  father,  man,  remember  that,  and  spare  me." 

"It  is  because  he  was  your  father  that  I  hated  him — that  I 
gloated  over  the  pangs  that  ate  away  his  life  with  a  keener 
anguish  than  I  could  have  dealt  him,"  answered  the  gipsy, 
hissing  the  words  forth  as  a  serpent  shoots  venom  through  its 
jaws. 

"  My  God  I  my  God  I  is  the  murderous  blood  of  this  man's 
race  in  my  veins  ?"  was  the  wild  response  that  broke  from  me 
as  I  writhed  in  the  torture  of  his  words — "  must  I  become  a 
fiend  like  this  ?" 

Instantly  Chaleco  seemed  transformed  ;  the  evil  light  went 
out  from  his  face,  leaving  that  look  of  subtle  cunning  almost 
universal  among  Caloes.  With  sinister  gentleness  he  strove  to 
soothe  me  into  forgetfulness  of  all  the  tiger  so  late  rampant  in 
his  nature. 

"  Come,  little  one,  look  up  and  weep,  if  you  can  ;  this  hot 
and  fiery  look  never  was  your  mother's." 


364  MY     LOST     FRIEND 

"  She  had  only  her  own  wrongs  to  suffer  and  forgive  ;  while 
T — oh,  Father  of  mercies,  how  great  is  the  load  of  evil  that  I 
inherit  and  must  endure  !  Am  I  doomed  like  Ishmael  ?  Must 
my  hand  be  raised  against  all  races  and  all  people  ?  Is  there 
no  brotherhood — no  sisterhood — no  humanity  left  for  me  on 
earth  ?" 

"  Hush  1"  said  Chaleco,  softly,  and  gliding  to  the  back  of  my 
chair — "  hush,  little  one,  this  is  madness  I" 

As  he  spoke,  I  felt  the  soft  touch  of  his  hands  upon  my 
head.  What  unearthly  power  was  it  that  possessed  this  man  ? 
Scarcely  had  his  palm  smoothed  down  my  hair  twice,  when  the 
oppression  upon  my  chest  was  gone.  A  feeling  of  ineffable 
calm  stole  over  me  ;  the  hate  which  a  moment  before  had 
burned  in  my  heart  against  him,  sunk  quietly  down,  as  a  tiger 
falls  asleep.  I  remembered  all  that  had  been  said  of  my  father, 
it  is  true,  but  vaguely  as  one  thinks  of  a  dream  ;  the  sting  and 
anguish,  the  sense  of  reality  was  gone.  I  slept  a  little,  proba 
bly  ten  minutes,  for  it  was  not  wholly  dark  when  I  awoke,  but 
it  seemed  as  if  that  sweet  slumber  had  refreshed  me  for  hours. 

"  Come  now,"  said  the  gipsy,  bringing  my  bonnet,  and  a 
habit  of  dark  green  cloth  that  I  usually  wore  in  cold  weather 
when  on  horseback,  "  get  ready  and  let  us  ride.  We  must 
make  a  good  night's  work  of  it  1" 

"  My  poor  Cora,"  I  muttered,  gathering  up  the  riding-habit, 
"  when  you  are  found,  what  will  there  be  for  me  to  accomplish  ? 
What  is  before  me  after  that  ?" 

"  Hush,  Zana — have  you  no  belief  in  the  God  you  talk  about  ? 
We  of  the  Caloes,  who  expect  nothing  beyond  this  earth,  fear 
nothing  while  here  ;  but  you,  this  hereafter  makes  cowards  of 
you  all ;  you  are  forever  and  ever  flinging  the  present — all  a 
man  ever  is  sure  of — after  the  past,  or  filling  it  with  fears  that 
blacken  the  future.  Bah  !  what  is  your  faith  to  be  counted  for, 
if  it  gives  no  better  courage  than  this  ?" 

I  felt  the  rebuke,  and  without  another  complaint  equipped 
myself  to  depart. 

I  saw  no  more  of  the  old  house  that  night,  for  we  passed  the 


AND     MY     LOST     HOME.  365 

• 

secret  panel  in  the  winding  staircase  which  led  to  the  main 
building,  and  penetrating  downward  through  cellars  and  vaulted 
passages,  came  to  the  open  air  through  the  floor  of  a  dilapi 
dated  summer-house. 

"  Look,"  said  Chaleco,  holding  his  lantern  down  that  I  might 
examine  the  tessellated  pattern  worked  in  with  colored  marbles. 
"  Should  the  old  house  be  inhabited  at  any  time,  and  you  wish 
to  seek  the  tower  yonder,  press  your  hand  upon  this  little  flag 
of  verd-antique,  the  only  block  of  that  noble  stone  that  you 
will  find  here.  See  how  easily  it  works  1" 

He  touched  the  diagonal  fragment,  and  instantly  the  centre 
of  the  floor  sunk  an  inch  or  two  and  wheeled  inward,  leaving  a 
circular  entrance  and  a  glimpse  of  the  winding  stairs  we  had 
just  mounted,  where  a  large  mosaic  star  had  a  moment  before 
formed  a  centre  to  the  radiating  pattern  of  the  pavement. 

"  You  understand,"  he  said,  wheeling  the  star  back  to  its 
place,  "this  passage  may  yet  be  of  use,  who  knows  ?  At  any 
rate,  it  is  our  secret.  I  found  the  passage  and  blocked  up  the 
turret  door.  No  one  remembers  much  about  the  old  house 
now,  and  the  change  will  never  be  noticed.  No  human  soul 
that  ever  breathed  here,  save  you  and  I,  are  alive  ;  and  my  lady 
countess  must  take  the  old  pile  as  she  finds  it.  Twenty  years 
of  ruin  will  make  changes  ;  the  birds  and  I  have  held  possession 
a  long  time,"  he  added,  lifting  his  eyes  to  the  rooks'  nests  that 
blackened  the  topmost  boughs  of  a  group  of  elms  just  above  us. 


366  OTJB     FLIGHT     FROM 


CHAPTER    XLYIII. 

«P 

OUR  FLIGHT   FROM  MARSTON   COURT. 

IN  the  shadow  of  these  elm  trees  two  horses  were  standing, 
one  equipped  for  a  lady.  They  tossed  their  heads  as  we  came 
up  and  backed  restively  from  the  light. 

"  They  are  fresh  as  larks,  you  see,"  said  Chaleco,  patting  the 
near  horse  with  his  hand.  "  So,  so,  Jerald,  is  this  the  way 
you  stand  fire  ?"  and  he  swung  the  lantern  full  in  the  creature's 
face,  which  made  him  rear  and  plunge  backward.  "  Come, 
Zana." 

I  stepped  forward,  and  with  a  laugh  Chaleco  lifted  me  to  the 
saddle. 

"There  is  the  true  blood  again,"  he  muttered,  smoothing 
down  my  skirt,  while  I  gathered  up  the  bridle. 

A  pair  of  leathern  saddle-bags,  such  as  were  often  used  by 
travellers  in  those-  times,  were  swung  across  Chaleco's  saddle. 
They  contained,  he  told  me,  the  clothes  I  had  brought  in  one 
end,  and  the  bronze  coffer  in  the  other. 

While  he  arranged  these  saddle-bags,  I  sat  upon  my  horse 
looking  gloomily  around.  It  was  a  dull,  cloudy  night.  The 
dense  masses  of  foliage  seemed  like  embankments  of  ebony. 
All  around  was  still  -and  dark  as  chaos,  save  the  elm-tree 
boughs  overhead,  that  began  to  bend  and  quake  beneath  the 
disturbed  rooks  that  swept  back  and  forth  among  them,  sending 
out  their  unearthly  caws.  They  seemed  like  dark  spirits  calling 
out  from  the  blackness,  "  go,  go,  go  1" 

Chaleco  took  the  candle  from  his  lantern,  extinguished  it 
beneath  his  foot,  and  flinging  the  lantern  away,  mounted. 
Thus,  amid  darkness  and  silence,  broken  only  by  the  hoarse 
rooks  that  seemed  hooting  us  away,  I  the  only  child  of  Clarence, 


MABSTON     COURT.  367 

Earl  of  Clare,  left  Ms  domain  and  went  forth  into  the  wide, 
wide  world. 

We  rode  fast  and  steadily  on  during  the  whole  night,  only 
pausing  once  at  a  field  of  oats,  from  which  Chaleco  gathered 
food  for  our  horses.  The  day  revealed  a  level  and  very  beauti 
ful  country,  embowered  with  hop-fields,  and  rich  with  the  npst 
exuberant  cultivation.  With  the  bright  October  air,  the  sun 
light,  and  all  the  strange  features  of  scenery  that  presented 
themselves  before  me,  my  spirits  began  to  revive.  The  warmth 
and  ardor  of  youthful  curiosity,  heightened,  doubtless,  by  the 
gipsy  fire  in  my  veins,  a  fire  which  finds  its  natural  fuel  in 
adventures,  rendered  me  almost  happy.  The  strange  world 
on  which  I  gazed,  looking  so  broad,  so  brave  in  its  morning 
beauty,  the  air  at  once  balmy  and  bracing,  awoke  all  the 
exhilaration  of  my  nature;  and  nothing  but  pity  for  my  tired 
horse  kept  me  from  breaking  into  a  canter  along  the  high 
way. 

We  stopped  at  no  public  house,  but  ate  the  cold  capon  and 
bread  which  Chaleco  took  from  his  saddle-bag,  at  the  foot  of 
an  old  oak  growing  out  alone  on  a  broad  heath  or  common 
which  we  were  crossing  at  the  time.  Close  by  our  seat,  upon 
the  little  mound  of  turf  lifted  up  from  the  le-vel  by  the  gnarled 
roots  of  the  oak,  a  spring  of  the  purest  water  gushed  over  a 
shelf  of  rock  nearly  overlapped  by  rich  moss,  and  with .  the 
appetites  a  long  ride  had  given,  our  breakfast  was  full  of  fresh 
enjoyment. 

Chaleco's  wandering  habits  had  fitted  him  well  for  this  out 
door  life.  When.  I  asked  for  drink,  he  ran  down  to  a  thicket 
below  the  spring,  gathered  some  huge  leaves,  and,  while  walk 
ing  leisurely  back,  converted  them  into  a  drinking-cup  with  two 
or  three  dexterous  turns  of  the  hand.  I  must  have  smiled  as 
the  leafy  cup  was  presented,  swelling  out  with  the  most  deli 
cious  water  that  sparkled  in  drops  all  over  the  outside. 

"  Oh,  you  smile,"  said  Chaleco;  "this  is  our  free-life,  Zana. 
In  Spain,  my  girl,  your  drinking-cups  shall  be  made  of  orange 
leaves,  your  sherbet  cooled  with  the  snows  of  Sierra  Nevada." 


368  OUR     FLIGHT. 

I  uttered  a  faint  cry — the  leafy  cup  fell  from  my  bauds — the 
snow-mountains  seemed  looming  all  around  me.  My  mother 
— my  poor  mother — how  could  that  man  bring  you  thus  to  my 
mind  ?  Was  it  hatred  of  the  gentile  blood  in  my  veins  ?  Did 
he  wish  to  kill  me  also  ? 

We  mounted  again,  and  rode  on  in  silence.  By  his  inadver 
tent  mention  of  the  snow-mountains,  Chaleco  had  filled  his  own 
soul  with  gloom.  I  began  to  pity  him,  for  his  face  grew  hag 
gard  with  much  thought. 

We  rested  at  noon  and  slept  some  hours  ;  then  on  again 
all  night,  and  till  dark  the  second  day. 

Not  doubting  Chaleco's  ability  or  sources  of  intelligence,  I 
followed  him  with  hope  and  animation.  Perhaps  this  search 
after  my  friend  served  to  keep  my  mind  from  dwelling  upon 
the  future — a  future  which  my  soul  ever  refused  to  contemplate 
steadily;  the  refinements  of  life,  all  the  sweet  blessings  of  civil 
ization  are  not  to  be  flung  aside  so  readily.  Notwithstanding 
all  the  wrongs  heaped  upon  me  in  that  land,  I  could  not  think 
of  the  barrancos  of  Granada  without  repugnance.  There  was 
something  of  disgust  in  this  remembrance.  A  purely  savage 
people  might  have  aroused  my  enthusiasm,  but  this  blending 
of  savage  and  civilized  life  found  among  the  Spanish  gipsies 
destroyed  the  dignity  of  both;  they  had  neither  the  vigor  of 
savages,  nor  the  refinements  of  civilization — no  religion,  no 
hereafter.  If  I  went  among  them,  it  must  be  to  adopt  their 
habits,  and  abide  by  their  laws.  But  I  dared  not  reflect  on 
this,  and  our  rapid  journeying  served  to  keep  such  thoughts  in 
the  background. 


THE     MOUNTAIN     LAKE.  369 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

THE   MOUNTAIN   LAKE   AND   HILL-SIDE    COTTAGE. 

WE  entered  Scotland,  travelling  rapidly  till  we  reached 
the  mountains.  I  do  not  speak  of  the  scenes  through  which 
we  passed,  because  this  memoir  is  already  too  long,  and  my 
hands  are  getting  weary  of  the  task.  At  a  little  town  in  the 
highlands  we  found  two  gipsies  that  I  had  seen  twice  on  the 
way,  evidently  waiting  for  us.  After  an  earnest  conversation 
with  these  men,  Chaleco  came  to  me,  apparently  somewhat 
elated. 

"  Well,  child,  we  have  found  them  out  at  last!  Our  people 
are  used  to  this  kind  of  work,  and  a  few  gold-pieces  from  Pa- 
pita's  box  kept  them  on  the  track." 

"  And  have  you  found  them  ?"  I  inquired,  rejoiced,  and  yet 
with  a  strange  aching  pain  at  the  heart,  for  Cora  once  found 
my  promise  of  joining  the  Spanish  tribes  must  be  redeemed. 

"  Behold,"  he  said,  drawing  me  to  a  window  of  the  public 
house,  which  overlooked  one  of  those  pretty  sheets  of  water 
that  lie  like  mirrors  in  the  rugged  frame-work  of  the  Scottish 
mountains.  "  Look  yonder  on  the  opposite  hill." 

I  saw  a  small  dwelling  perched  above  the  lake,  and  sheltered 
by  a  vast  cedar  tree. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  see  nothing  but  a  farm-house,  and  some 
sheep  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountains." 

"You  will  find  the  Gitanilla  up  yonder,  I  think,"  he  an 
swered. 

"What,  Cora — my  Cora?  Come — come,  it  is  but  a  walk, 
and  we  are  with  her." 

"  Better  than  that,"  he  answered.  "  The  distance  is  more 

16* 


370  THE     MOUNTAIN     LAKE      AND 

than  it  looks;  we  will  be  rowed  across  the  lake  by  our  people. 
Get  your  plaid  and  let  us  be  off." 

I  went  for  the  Tartan  shawl  which  Chaleco  had  bought  as 
we  approached  the  chilly  north,  and  we  descended  to  the  lake. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and  long  shadows  from  the  moun 
tain  fell  sheer  across  the  little  loch,  letting  in  gleams  of  light 
only  in  one  or  two  places  where  the  hills  were  cleft  into  fissures 
and  valleys,  their  sides  rich  with  heath,  through  which  the  sun 
shine  poured  upon  the  waters  in  purple  and  golden  splendor. 

Through  these  cool  shadows  and  glowing  ripples  of  light  our 
boat  passed  to  the  opposite  shore.  A  footpath  led  from  the 
public  beach  along  the  side  of  a  valley  winding  upward  with 
gradual  ascent,  to  the  house  we  had  seen.  It  was  a  stone 
building,  evidently  the  abode  of  a  sheep  farmer,  whose  flocks 
were  scattered  over  the  hill-side,  cropping  the  short  grass  from 
among  the  heath. 

It  was  strange,  but  this  scene  seemed  familiar  to  me;  the 
old  stone  house,  the  lake,  the  opposite  mountains,  bold  and 
rugged,  the  very  sheep  whitening  the  hollows,  like  masses  of 
snow,  reminded  me  of  some  foregone  impression  vivid  as  the 
reality.  I  bethought  myself,  with  a  start,  and  stood  breath 
less,  gazing  upon  the  house.  It  was  that  house,  those  moun 
tains,  and  the  quiet  lake  below  that  I  had  seen  in  my  sleep 
that  night  at  Marston  Court,  where,  amid  storm  and  light 
ning,  the  history  of  my  parents  was  pictured  in  fragments  like 
that  before  me. 

I  looked  at  Chaleco,  but  he  was  gazing  indifferently  around; 
evidently  the  scene  had  no  such  associations  for  him.  The 
power  which  he  possessed  had  been  sufficient  to  awaken  mem 
ory,  not  create  belief  in  a  thing  that  had  never  existed. 

A  mountain  vine,  whose  Reaves  were  red  with  their  autumnal 
death  sap,  clambered  up  the  front  of  the  old  house,  hanging 
around  the  windows  and  eaves,  like  fragments  of  hostile  ban 
ners,  in  wild  keeping  with  the  rugged  scenery.  Two  or  three 
narrow  windows  were  almost  choked  up  by  its  red  foliage  ;  but 
from  one,  overlooking  the  lake,  it  had  been  forced  back  in  gor* 


HILL-SIDE     COTTAGE.  371 

geous  festoons,  revealing  a  lattice  full  of  diamond-shaped  glass, 
upon  which  the  sunbeams  were  shining. 

As  I  stood  looking  at  this  window,  it  was  gently  opened.  A 
face  peered  out,  and  the  lattice  closed  again,  before  the  cry  of 
surprise  and  joy  had  left  my  lips. 

"What  is  it  ?"  said  Chaleco,  turning  sharply  at  my  exclamation. 

"  It  is  she !     It  is  Cora  !" 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?     I  expected  to  find  her  here." 

"  But  she  saw  me,  and  shrunk  away." 

"  Very  likely  ;  but  you  shall  see  her,  little  one,  never 
theless." 

"  Oh,  why  should  she  avoid  me  ?"  I  said,  twinkling  my  tears 
away  with  the  lashes  that  could  not  keep  them  back. 

"  Come — come — don't  be  a  baby,  Zana  ;  weep  when  you  can 
do  nothing  better,"  said  the  gipsy,  out  of  patience  with  my 
childishness,  "  wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  send  the  girl  out  to 
meet  you." 

"  No,  no,  only  ask  if  I  may  come  in— that  is  all,"  I  cried, 
breathless  with  fear  that  he  might  be  rough  with  the  poor  girl, 
"  tell  her  that  we  come  from  Mr.  Clark  ;  tell  her  anything  that 
is  kind." 

He  did  not  hear  half  I  said,  but  entered  the  house.  Directly 
he  returned,  and  beckoned  with  his  hand.  I  advanced  into  a 
large  kitchen,  furnished  comfortably,  but  rudely,  after  the  Scot 
tish  fashion,  in  houses  of  the  kind. 

"  Go  in  yonder,"  said  Chaleco,  pointing  to  an  inner  door, 
through  which  I  heard  the  faint  rustle  of  a  dress. 

I  entered  a  small  room,  fitted  up  with  some  .attempt  at 
elegance.  A  faded  carpet  was  on  the  floor,  and  some  old- 
fashioned  oak  furniture  stood  around.  Two  or  three  good 
cabinet  pictures  were  on  the  walls,  and  some  dainty  ornaments 
of  antique  and  foreign  manufacture  stood  upon  a  table  near  the 
lattice.  By  this  table  stood  Cora,  stooping  wearily  forward, 
and  supporting  herself  by  the  window-frame,  with  her  great, 
wild  eyes,  black  with  excitement,  bent  upon  the  entrance.  The 
long  golden  waves  which  ended  in  ringlets  on  her  shoulders, 


372  THE     MOUNTAIN     LAKE 

seemed  to  light  up  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  and  I  saw  that  she 
shrunk  and  trembled  at  my  approach. 

"  Cora  1"  I  said,  with  a  gush  of  loving  joy,  "  dear,  dear 
Cora  1"  , 

She  shrunk  back,  folding  her  arms,  and  eyeing  me  with  a 
look  of  affright. 

"  Cora,  I  came  from  your  father  j  speak  to  me,  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you." 

"  But  why  have  you  come  here  ?  I  did  not  ask  it — I  did 
not  want  it,"  she  answered,  her  eyes  filling,  and  her  sweet  lips 
quivering. 

"  I  came  to  ask — to  entreat — oh,  Cora,  come  back,  come 
back  to  your  poor  father,  or  he  will  die." 

"  I  know  it — I  know  that  he  will  die  without  me  ;  but  how 
can  I  go  ?  what  can  I  do  ?" 

"  Go  home,"  I  answered  imperatively  ;  "  why,  oh,  Cora 
Clark,  why  did  you  leave  us  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me — don't  speak  to  me  on  this  subject ;  I  will 
not  be  questioned,"  with  a  gleam  of  temper  in  her  blue  eyes, 
and  a  willful  pout  of  the  lips,  the  remnants  of  her  wayward 
infancy,  "  you  have  no  right  to  come  here,  Zana — none  in  the 
world.  Oh,  Zana,  he  will  be  so  angry." 

Something  of  the  old  love  was  in  her  voice.  Encouraged  by 
it,  I  went  and  softly  encircled  her  shrinking  form  in  my  arms, 
leaning  my  wet  cheeks  against  the  golden  thickness  of  her 
hair. 

"  Cora,  dear,  is  it  your  husband  that  you  speak  of?"  I  said, 
with  a  heart  that  trembled  more  than  my  voice. 

She  threw  herself  on  my  bosom,  clasping  me  close  in  her 
shaking  arms. 

"  Oh,  Zana  1   Zana  1"       0 

I  understood  it  all,  and  the  heart,  but  an  instant  before 
trembling  with  hope,  lay  heavy  and  still  in  my  bosom. 

"  Cora,"  I  said,  in  a  whisper,  parting  the  hair  from  her  fore 
head,  and  kissing  it  with  affection  deeper  than  I  had  ever 
known  before,  and  yet  with  a  shudder,  for  I  knew  that  his  lips 


HILL-SIDE     COTTAGE.  373 

had  touched  that  white  brow  last,  and  spite  of  the  knowledge, 
felt  in  my  soul  that  he  was  dear  to  me  even  then,  traitor  and 
villain  as  he  was,  "  Cora,  love,  come  home,  the  little  house  is 

desolate  without  you  ;  your  father  " 

"  Don't,  oh,  don't ;  why  will  you  speak  that  name  so  cruelly? 
I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  cried,  struggling  in  my  arms  ;  "  but — but 
tell  me  how  he  is,"  she  added,  clinging  closer  and  closer,  that  I 
might  not  look  in  her  face. 

"  111,  Cora,  ill,  and  pining  to  death  for  the  sight  of  his 
child." 

Her  head  fell  heavily  on  my  shoulder,  and  she  gasped  out, 
"  No,  110,  he  is  not  ill." 

I  would  not  spare  her  one  pang,  she  must  feel  all  the  deso 
lation  that  had  fallen  on  her  good  parent,  or  my  errand  would 
fail. 

"  Yes,  ill,  Cora,  helpless — striken  down  like  a  child.  I  left 
him  in  the  old  chair — that  by  which  you  and  I  stood  to  com 
fort  him  on  the  day  of  your  mother's  funeral ;  that  was  a 
mournful  time,  Cora,  but  the  day  when  you  left  him,  think  what 
it  must  have  been — think  of  that  noble  man,  calling  in  »nguish 
for  his  living  child,  and  she  silent  as  the  dead — gone  not  into 

the  sweet  peace  of  the  grave,  but '.' 

""  Hold  1  oh,  Zana,  Zana  I  you  are  killing  me — killing  me,  I 
say!"  - 

She  broke  from  my  arms,  and  pushed  back  the  hair  from  her 
face  with  both  hands  "as  she  spoke ;  then,  as  her  eyes  met  mine, 
full  of  sorrowful  reproach  and  moist  with  compassion,  she  let 
the  hair  sweep  down,  and  clasping  those  two  dimpled  hands 
over  her  eyes,  wept  till  her  sobs  filled  the  room. 

"  Will  you  leave  this  bad  man  and  go  back  to  your  father, 
Oora  ?"  I  said,  circling  her  waist  with  my  arms  again. 
f'1  He  is  not  bad — I  cannot — I  cannot  leave  him.  .  It  is  of  no 
use  asking  me.     It  would  kill  him  ;  oh,  Zana,  Zana  1  don't  call 
him  bad — he  is  so  kind,  he  loves  me  so  much  l^/ 

"  And  yet  brings  you  here — steals  you  away  from  your  inno 
cent  home,  to — to  " 


374  THE     MOUNTAIN     LAKE     AND 

'     I  could  not  go  on,  grief  and  indignation  stifled  me. 

"  He  does  not  deserve  this-^-I  will  not  hear  it  1"  she  cried, 
breaking  from  me.  Her  sweet  face  flushed  red  and  warm 
through  the  tears  that  streamed  over  it,  and  her  eyes  flashed  a 
defiant  glance  into  mine.  "  Say  what  you  will  of  me,  I  am 
wicked,  cruel,  worse — worse,  if  it  pleases  you  to  say  it  ;  but  as 
for  him,  did  I  not  tell  you,  Zana,  that  I  loved  him  ?  I  do — I 
do  better  than  life,  better  than  my  own  soul,  better  than  ten 

thousand  friends  like  you,  than  ten  thousand  fath oh,  my 

God,  I  did  not  say  that — no,  no,  I  dare  not  say  that." 

I  sat  down  by  the  table,  shocked  and  almost  in  despair.  She 
crept  toward  me,  and  sinking  down  to  the  floor,  laid  her  head 
upon  my  lap,  exhausted  by  this  outbreak  of  passion. 

"  Hush,  Cora,  hush,  and  let  us  talk  quietly  a  little,"  I  said, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  we  both  cried  bitterly  together,  as 
we  had  often  done  over  our  petty  sorrows  in  childhood.  "  Tell 
me,  darling — don't,  don't  cry  so — tell  me  why  it  is  that  this  man 
does  not  make  you  his  wife  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me  about  that — don't,  don't — he  is  afraid  of 
Lady  Glare,  he  expects  everything  from  her." 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it  well  ;  but " 

She  interrupted  the  bitter  speech  on  my  lips. 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  terrible  woman,  Zana,  and  he  fears  her  so 
much  ;  she  has  got  everything  that  ought  to  be  his,  and  would 
quite  crush  him  if  she  suspected  anything  before  all  is  settled 
between  them." 

How  beautiful  she  looked  with  her  pleading  eyes,  soft  with 
love  and  dim  with  tears — so  unconscious,  too,  of  her  terrible 
position,  so  confiding — my  heart  ached  for  her. 

"  You  will  go  back  and  tell  this  to  father,"  she  said,  kissing 
my  hands  and  folding  them  to  her  bosom  ;  "  tell  him  only,fo 
have  patience  for  a  little  time  ;  cheer  him  up,  Zana,  he  loves^ 
you  so  much,  almost  as  much,  you  know,  as  he  did  poor  me. 
Tell  him  I  am  quite  comfortable  here  among  the  hills  ;  that  I 
read  some,  and  think  of  him  more  than  is  good  for  me.  Will 
you  say  all  this,  Zana  ?" 


HILL-SIDE     COTTAGE.  375 

"  Don't  ask  me  now,  darling — take  time,  I  shall  stay  here  by 
the  lake  a  week  yet  ;  we  will  consult  and  think  what  is  best  to 
be  done.  Stop  crying,  dear,  it  will  do  no  good  " 

She  interrupted  me,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  I  know  it — if  tears  would  help  one,  I  should  be  very  happy, 
for  I  do  think  no  human  being  ever  shed  so  many.  It  is  lone 
some  here  sometimes,  Zana." 

"  But  you  are  not  alone,"  I  said,  with  a  gleam  of  hope;  "  he 
cannot  find  much  amusement  here  to  take  him  away  from  you." 

"  Oh,  he,  is  scarcely  ever  here.  They  keep  him  so  constantly 
occupied." - 

"  Who  ?"  I  inquired,  surprised. 

"Oh,  the  countess  and  the  young  lady  they  call  Estelle.  Do 
you  think  her  handsome,  that  Estelle  ?  some  people  do, 
but" ':\ 

I  interrupted  her,  sharply. 

"  Lady  Clare — is  she  in  the  highlands,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  they  came  up  to  a  hunting-lodge,  some  miles  back  in 
the  mountains,  that  Lord  Clare  used  to  live  in  years  ago  ;  his 
death  made  them  all  too  gloomy  for  society,  and  they  came 
quietly  up  here." 

"  And  does  Lady  Clare  know — that  is,  does  she  consent  that 
you  reside  so  near  ?" 

"  I  never  asked  ;  he  thought  it  best,  and  I  could  not  endure 
to  stay  in  London  alone  ;  but  after  a  little,  no  one  will  care  if 
she  does  know.  When  all  is  settled,  you  see,  papa  can  come 
and  live  with  us  at  Marston  Court." 

I  shuddered  ;  how  cruelly  each  word  went  to  my  heart — 
they  would  live  at  Marstou  Court  then.  A  jealdus  pang  shot 
through  me  at  the  bare  idea  ;  and  yet  if  her  dream  should 
prove  unreal,  how  terrible  must  her  fate  be.  The  interview 
was  becoming  painful  beyond  endurance.  I  arose,  she  clung  to 
me  caressingly. 

"  You  will  come  again,  Zana;  I  have  some  things  on  my 
mind  that  trouble  me  besides  my  poor  father." 

"  But  shall  I  find  you  alone  ?" 


376  THE     ANTIQUE     BIBLE. 

"  I  am  almost  always  alone,"  she  replied,  sadly. 

"  To-morrow,"  I  said,  "  be  ready  and  we  will  go  out  on  the 
lake  together,  and  talk  over  everything.  Would  you  like  that, 
Cora  ?" 

She  smiled,  and  her  soft  eyes  sparkled  through  their  misti 
ness  ;  poor,  young  thing,  she  was  half  unconscious  yet  of  the 
misery  that  lay  before  her.  She  kissed  me  over  and  over  again 
as  I  left,  and  when  our  boat  was  upon  the  lake,  I  looked  back 
and  saw  her  standing  in  the  little  casement,  framed  in,  like  a 
sorrowing  cherub,  by  the  crimsoned  vines. 


CHAPTER    L. 

THE     ANTIQUE      BIBLE. 

I  SPENT  a  most  anxious  night,  my  heart  racked  by  a  thousand 
wild  emotions.  Need  I  describe  them  ?  Has  any  human  being 
the  power  of  conveying  to  another  in  words  the  storm  of  jea 
lousy,  compassion,  rage,  and  love  that  filled  my  bosom  ?  I 
know  that  there  is  a  great  want  of  dignity  in  acknowledging 
that  I  still  loved  this  man,  that  I  could  for  an  instant  think  of 
him  without  virtuous  detestation ;  but  I  am  writing  of  a  human 
heart  as  it  was,  not,  perhaps,  as  it  should  have  been.  To  me 
George  Irving  seemed  two  beings.  The  man  I  had  known, 
generous,  wise,  impetuous,  all  that  my  heart  acknowledged  to 
be  grand  in  humanity  ;  and  the  man  I  had  heard  of,  treacher 
ous,  full  of  hypocrisy,  and  vile  in  every  aspiration.  I  could  not 
reconcile  these  clashing  qualities  in  my  mind.  To  my  reason, 
George  Irving  was  a  depraved,  bad  man  ;  but  my  heart 
rejected  the  character,  and  always  turned  leniently  toward  the 
first  idea  it  had  formed.  While  I  pitied  Cora  from  the  bottom 
of  my  soul,  and  loved  her  so  dearly  that  no  sacrifice  would  have 
been  too  costly  a  proof  of  this  devotion,  there  was  jealousy 


THE     ANTIQUE     BIBLE.  377 

in  my  heart  that  embittered  it  all.  Alas,  it  is  often  much 
^easier  to  act  right  than  to  feel  right. 

When  I  went  for  Cora,  the  next  day,  she  took  me  to  an 
oaken  cabinet  in  her  room,  and  with  a  sad  smile — for  all  her 
pretty  smiles  had  a  shade  of  sadness  in  them  now — asked  me 
to  examine  some  old  books  that  lay  huddled  together  on  the 
shelf. 

"  It  is  singular,"  she  said,  "  but  your  name  is  written  in  some 
of  these  books,  and  Zana  is  a  very  uncommon  name.  Would 
you  like  to  see  how  it  is  used  ?" 

She  took  up  a  small,  antique  Bible,  and  after  unclasping  the 
cover  of  sandal-wood,  on  which  some  sacred  story  was  deeply 
engraved,  placed  it  open  in  my  hands.  On  the  fly-leaf  was 
written,  in  a  clear  and  very  beautiful  hand, 

"  Clarence,  Earl  of  Clare,  to  his  wife  Aurora." 

A  date  followed  this,  and  lower  down  on  the  page  was  a 
register,  in  the  same  bold  writing,  dated  at  .the  hamlet,  some 
months  after  the  presentation  lines  were  written.  This  was  the 
register  : 

"Born,  June  ,  Zana,  daughter  of  Clarence,  Earl  of 

Clare,  and  Aurora,  his  wife." 

The  book  fell  from  my  hands  ;  I  did  not  know  its  entire  im 
portance,  or  what  bearing  it  might  have  on  my  destiny,  but  my 
heart  swelled  with  a  flood  of  gratitude  that  almost  overwhelmed 
me.  I  had  no  idea  of  its  legal  value,  but  the  book  seemed  to 
me  of  inestimable  worth.  In  it  were  blended,  in  terms  of  honor, 
the  names  of  my  parents  ;  how  it  came  there  I  did  not  ask. 

Cora  stooped  down  to  recover  the  book,  but  I  seized  it  first, 
exclaiming,  amid  my  sobs, 

11  It  is  mine — it  is  mine,  Cora  !  Cora,  I  bless  you — God  will 
bless  you  for  giving  me  this  great  happiness." 

We  went  down  to  the  lake,  where  Chaleco  waited  with  the 
little  boat.  He  looked  hard  at  me,  as  I  came  round  the  tiny 
cove,  where  he  lay  as  if  in  a  cradle,  rocking  upon  the  bright 
waters  as  they  flowed  in  and  out,  forming  ripples  and  ridges  of 
diamonds  among  the  white  pebbles  of  the  beach. 


3T8  THE     ANTIQUE     BIBLE. 

"  What  is  it,  Zana  ?"  he  said,  springing  ashore,  as  Cora 
seated  herself  in  the  boat,  and  interrogating  me  in  a  whisper 
on  the  bank.  "  You  look  sharp  set,  like  a  hawk  when  it  first 
sees  its  prey.  What  has  happened  up  yonder  ?" 

I  took  the  antique  little  Bible  from  under  my  shawl,  and 
opening  it  at  the  blank  leaf,  pointed  out  the  writing. 

He  read  it  two  or  three  times  over,  and  then  thrust  the  book 
into  his  bosom.  His  face  was  thoughtful  at  first,  but  as  he 
pondered  over  the  writing,  muscle  by  muscle  relaxed  in  his 
dark  features,  and  at  last  they  broke  forth  in  a  blaze  of  the 
most  eloquent  triumph  j  his  questions  came  quick  upon  each 
other,  like  waves  in  a  cataract. 

-  "  Where  did  you  get  tha^?     Is  it  all  ?     Who  has  had  pos 
session  so  long  ?     Speak,  Zana,  I  must  know  more." 

"  Why,  is  it  so  important  ?"  I  inquired,  excited  by  his  look 
and  manner. 

"  Important  1  why,  child" —  -  but  he  checked  himself, 
inquiring  more  composedly  how  I  came  in  possession  of  the 
book. 

I  told  him  how  it  had  been  pointed  out  by  Cora.  Without 
more  questioning,  he  stepped  into  the  boat,  and  bade  me  follow 
him. 

When  we  were  all  seated,  and  the  boat  was  shooting  plea 
santly  across  the  lake,  Chaleco  began,  in  a  quiet,  indifferent 
manner,  to  converse  with  Cora.  At  first  she  was  shy  and 
reluctant  to  answer  him,  but  his  manner  was  so  persuasive,  his 
voice  so  winning,  that  it  was  impossible  to  resist  their  charm. 
After  awhile  he  glided  into  the  subject  of  the  book,  speaking 
of  its  antique  binding,  of  the  rare  perfume  which  she  might 
have  noticed  in  the  precious  wood,  and  he  went  on  to  explain 
that  it  was  used  of  old  in  tjie  building  of  the  Tabernacle.  All 
this  interested  Cora  greatly,  and  when  he  began  to  wonder 
how  this  singular  volume  could  have  found  its  way  into  the 
farmer's  dwelling,  she  commenced  to  conjecture  and  question 
about  the  probabilities  with  more  apparent  earnestness  than 
himself. 


THE     ANTIQUE     BIBLE.  379 

"  The  old  people  might  perhaps  know,"  she  said.  "  Now  I 
think  of  it,  they  did  tell  me  of  some  persons,  a  gentleman,  lady 
and  little  child  that  lived  with  them  long  ago — probably  they 
left  the  book  j  but  then,  how  came  Lord  Clare's  name  in  it  ?"• 

"  Yes,  sure  enough,"  murmured  Chaleco,  cautious  not  to 
interrupt  her. 

"  Besides,  Lady  Clare's  name  was  not  Aurora,  and  he  never 
would  have  lived  here  with  that  beautiful  hunting-seat  only  five 
miles  off,  you  know." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  acquiesced  Chaleco,  while  I  sat  still, 
listening  keenly  to  every  word. 

"  You  see,"  continued  the  young  girl,  quite  animated  on  the 
subject,  "  you  see  how  impossible  it  is  that  the  writing  means 
anything  ;  but  it -is  in  other  books — that  is,  names  are  written 
in  them,  Clarence  sometimes,  sometimes  Aurora,  now  and  then, 
both  names  ;  but,  Zana,  I  have  never  found  that  but  once." 

Chaleco  fell  into  thought,  and  the  oars  hung  listlessly  in  his 
hands  for  some  minutes.  At  last  he  spoke  again,  but  on  indif 
ferent  subjects,  about  the  lightness  of  the  air,  and  the  beautiful, 
silvery  glow  that  shimmered  over  the  waters.  But  once  in  a 
while  he  would  quietly  revert  to  the  book  again,  till  I  became 
impressed  with  its  importance  to  a  degree  that  made  me  restless 
for  more  information. 

After  sailing  around  and  across  the  lake  for  several  hours, 
we  drew  up  at  a  little  island  scarcely  half  a  mile  across,  that 
lay  near  the  centre  of  the  lake,  green  as  a  heap  of  emeralds, 
notwithstanding  the  season  was  advanced,  and  embowered  by 
cedar  and  larch  trees,  with  the  richest  and  most  mossy  turf  I 
ever  trod  on,  carpeting  it  from  shore  to  shore. 

Chaleco  brought  forth  a  basket  of  provisions  from  his  boat, 
and  bade  us  wander  about  while  he  prepared  our  dinner.  We 
waited  to  see  him  strike  fire  from  two  flint  stones  that  he 
gathered  from  the  bank,  and  kindle  a  quantity  of  dry  sticks 
that  lay  scattered  beneath  the  trees.  When  he  had  spitted  a 
fowl,  which,  gipsy  like,  he  preferred  to  cook  himself  after  the 
sylvan  fashion,  we  went  away,  and  sat  down  under  a  clump  of 


380  THE     ANTIQUE     BIBL'E. 

larch  trees,  sadly  and  in  silence,  as  was  natural  to  persons 
whose  thoughts  turned  on  a  common  and  most  painful  subject. 

I  had  resolved,  there  and  then,  to  make  my  last  appeal  to  the 
infatuated  child.  She  must  have  guessed  this  from  my  silence 
and  the  gravity  of  my  face,  for  she  became  wordless  as  myself, 
and  as  I  glanced  anxiously  in  her  eyes  they  took  the  sullen, 
obstinate  expression  of  one  prepared  to  resist,  and,  if  driven  to 
it,  defy. 

We  sat  down  together  upon  the  grass.  The  delicate  green 
foliage  of  the  larches  quivered  softly  over  us,  and  the  brown 
leaves  of  some  trees  that  had  felt  the  frost,  rustled  through  the 
air  and  spotted  the  turf  as  with  the  patterns  in  a  carpet  *  We 
remained  a  long  time  gazing  on  these  leaves,  in  sad  silence,  but 
holding  each  other  by  the  hand,  as  was  our  habit  when  little 
children.  My  heart  was  full  of  tfcose  dear  old  times  ;  it  killed 
me  to  think  that  they  were  gone  forever— that  again  on  this 
earth  Cora  and  I  could  never  be  entire  friends,  friends  be 
tween  whom  no  subject  is  forbidden,  no  respect  lost.  When 
I  thought  of  this,  and  knew  that  the  impediment  lay  in  my 
heart  as  much  as  it  could  in  her  conduct,  the  future  for  us  both 
seemed  very  hopeless.  I  can  hardly  describe  the  feelings  that 
actuated  me.  Perhaps  they  arose  from  the  evil  felt  in  my  own 
person,  the  result  of  a  step  like  that  which  Cora  had  taken, 
entailed  by  my  mother.  True,  the  cases  were  not  alike  ;  my 
poor  gipsy  mother  had  not  sinned  consciously  ;  no  high  moral 
culture  had  prepared  her  to  resist  temptation  ;  no  fond  parent 
graced  her  with  his  love  ;  but  her  act  had  plunged  me,  her 
innocent  chiJd,  into  fatal  troubles  that  must  haunt  me  though  life. 

It  is  possible,  I  say,  that  these  thoughts  prevented  me  feeling 
all  the  charity  that  would  have  been  kind  for  the  poor  girl  at 
my  side;  perhaps,  and  this  is  most  probable,  I  could  not  for 
give  the  companionship  of  her  error,  for  it  is  a  terrible  trial  to 
feel  that  one  you  cannot  entirely  respect  is  preferred  to  your 
self.  In  striving  thus  to  analyze  the  feelings  that  made  me 
drop  Cora's  hand  for  a  time  as  we  sat  silently  together,  one 
thing  was  certain,  I  did  not  cordially  love  her  with  the  affec- 


THE     ANTIQUE     BIBLE.  381 

tion  of  former  years.  Still,  feelings  swelled  in  my  heart 
stronger  and  more  faithful  than  love — gratitude,  and  my  sol 
emn*  promise  to  the  good  father ;  compassion  for  her,  not 
unmixed,  but  powerful  enough  to  have  commanded  any  sacri 
fice  ;  a  firm  desire  to  wrest  her  from  the  man  who  had  wronged 
us  both;  all  these  motives  influenced  and  urged  me  on  to  rescue 
that  poor  girl,  if  human  eloquence  and  human  will  could  accom 
plish  it. 

I  attempted  to  speak,  but  my  throat  was  parched  and  my 
faculties  all  lay  dead  for  the  moment;  but  struggling  cour 
ageously  with  myself,  I  took  her  hand,  pressing  it  between  my 
own  cold  palms;  "  Cora,"  I  said,  still  in  a  whisper,  for  my  voice 
would  not  come,  "  have  you  thought  all  this  over  ?  will  you  go 
with  me  to  your  father  ?  Remember,  love,  he  is  ill  and  may 
not  live." 

The  hand  began  to  tremble  in  mine,  but  she  turned  her  face 
away. 

"  Let  the  subject  drop,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  low  and  full  of 
pain,  like  mine;  "it  is  of  no  use  talking,  I  will  not  leave  him. 
It  would  kill  us  both ;  I  should  perish  on  the  way." 

Now  my  voic6  returned — my  heart  swelled — words  of  per 
suasion,  of  reason,  rose  eloquently  to  my  lips.  I  reasoned,  I 
entreated,  I  portrayed  the  disgrace  of  her  present  position, 
prophesied  the  deeper  shame  and  anguish  sure  to  follow.  I 
described  the  condition  of  her  father  in  words  that  melted  my 
own  heart  and  flooded  my  face  with  tears.  I  prostrated  my 
self  before  her,  covering  her  dimpled  and  trembling  hands  with 
my  tears,  but  all  in  vain.  ~$iy  passion  was  answered  with 
silence  or  smothered  monosyllables.  She  suffered  greatly;  even 
in  the  excitement  of  my  own  feelings  I  was  sure  of  that.  At 
length  she  broke  from  me,  and  .rushed  off  toward  the  beach, 
evidently  determined  to  protect  herself  from  my  importunity 
by  the  presence  of  Chaleco. 

I  had  no  heart  to  follow  her,  but  went  away  in  another  direc 
tion,  walking  rapidly  toward  the  opposite  extremity  of  the 
island. 


I 
382  THE     ISLAND     COVE. 


CHAPTER    LI. 

THE    ISLAND   COVE. 

As  I  neared  a  tiny  cove  that  shot  up  like  a  silver  arrow  into 
the  green  turf,  I  was  surprised  to  find  the  gay  streamers  of  a 
pleasure  boat  floating  over  the  rushes  that  edged  the  cove. 
With  my  tearful  eyes  and  flushed  countenance,  I  was  in  no 
condition  to  meet  strangers,  and  turned  to  retrace  my  steps, 
heart-sick,  and  at  the  moment  recoiling  from  the  sight  of  any 
thing  human.  Scarcely  had  I  walked  twenty  paces,  when  foot 
steps  followed  me,  and  some  one  called  me  by  name.  I  looked 
around  and  saw  Mr.  Upham  coming  up  from  the  boat.  I 
would  not  appear  to  fly  from  this  man,  though  my  heart  rose 
against  him  in  detestation. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  approaching  me  more  slowly  after  I  paused, 
and  speaking  with  forced  cheerfulness,  "  how  came  you  here,  of 
all  places  in  the  world  ;  are  you  the  goddess  of  this  little  island 
— a  fairy  ?  In  the  name  of  everything  beautiful,  explain  this 
meeting  ?" 

I  did  not  at  first  reply  ;  indeed  it  was  difficult  to  account  for 
my  presence  thus  alone  on  a  remote  spot  never  visited  perhaps 
once  a  year.  Important,  as  I  felt  secrecy  to  be,  I  could  not 
speak  of  Chaleco  or  explain  anything  regarding  Cora,  whose 
position,  above  all  things,  must  be  kept  from  a  man  so  intimate 
with  the  Clares.  I  attempted  to  answer  in  his  own  light  way. 

"  The  spirits  of  air  and  water  do  not  offer  themselves  so 
readily,  sir  ;  I  came  from  'the  little  public  house  yonder,  in  a 
very  commonplace  boat." 

"  Then  you  are  alone  ?"  he  questioned,  w,ith  a  quick  sparkle 
of  the  eye,  that  filled  me  with  courage  rather  than  terror. 

"  At  present,  yes." 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  383 

"  And  how  long  have  you  been  in  Scotland,  may  I  presume 
to  inquire?" 

"  A  very  short  time." 

"  But  you  are  not  all  this  distance  from  home  alone  ?" 

"No,  I  have  friends  with  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  old  Turner,  I  suppose.  And  now,  sweet  Zana,  let 
me  say  how  happy,  how  very  happy  I  am  to  meet  you  again  ; 
it  seems  like  a  dream." 

It  was  impossible  that  I  should  not  feel  the  deprecating 
humility  of  his  manner  ;  besides,  what  had  I  ever  received  from 
this  man  but  kindness?  His  only  fault  was  that  of  having 
offered  love*protection,  honorable  marriage,  when  all  others  of 
his  race  shrunk  from  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  leper.  Still  there 
was  aversion  in  my  heart ;  and  I  walked  on,  but  not  in  the 
direction  of  our  boat.  He/ollowed  me. 

"  Can  you  forgive  it,  Zana,  that  I  am  still  true  ; — that  I  can 
not  cease  to  love  you  ?" 

"  It  is  not  a  crime  to  love  any  one,"  I  answered,  touched  by 
his  earnestness.  "  I  do  not  scorn,  but  am  grateful  for  all  kind 
ness  !" 

"  Then  you  will  listen  to  me  ? — you  will  yet  be  mine  ?  I  will 
protect  you,  Zana,  in  the  face  of  all  these  haughty  Clares.  I 
am  now  independent." 

~"  It  cannot  be,"  I  said,  firmly,  but  not  with  the  austere  repul 
sion  of  former  days.  "  I  shall  never  love — never  marry — my 
destiny  is  fixed." 

"  Oh,  Zana,"  he  said,  "  why  do  you  repulse  me  thus  ?  What 
have  I  done  to  deserve  it  ?  Have  not  all  others  forsaken  you  ?" 

"  Alas  !  yes  !"  I  said,  weeping. 

"  Have  they  not  treated  you  worse  than  a  Russian  serf  or 
negro  slave,  while  I  have  always  been  firm  in  my  devotion,  true 
as  heaven  itself  in  my  love  ?  Is  this  love  at  such  times  nothing, 
that  you  cast  it  so  scornfully  away  ?" 

"  I  do  not  cast  it  away  scornfully,  but  am  grateful,  very 
grateful  ;  still  it  is  impossible  that  I  should  ever  love  you,  or 
become  your  wife." 


384:  THE     ISLAND     OOVE. 

"  Tell  me  why,  Zana  I" 

"  Because  I  have  no  power  over  the  affections  of  my  own 
heart ;  they  are  the  only  tyrants  I  cannot  overcome,"  I  said. 

"  But  give  me  time  ;  only  endure  my  presence,"  he  persisted, 
seating  himself  by  me  so  gently  that  I  was  almost  unconscious 
of  the  act  ;  "  these  tyrant  affections  must  yield  to  the  power 
of  love  like  mine." 

I  shook  my  head  and  made  a  motion  to  rise,  but  he  held  me 
down  with  a  gentle  pressure  of  his  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  Can  you — can  you  know,  my  Zana,  for  I  will  call  you  mine 
this  once — can  you  know  how  much  love  you  are  trampling  to 
death  ?" 

"  I  only  know  that  no  one  feeling  in  my  heart  answers  to  it." 

"  And  yet,  oh,  heavens,  how  I  have  lavished  the  first  fruits 
of  my  life  away  upon  this  one  hope  I  all  other  women  were 
as  nothing — to  me.  The  proud  Estelle,  before  whom  Irving 
bends  like  a  slave,  and  Morton  in  infatuation,  could  not  win  a 
thought  from  a  heart  too  full  of  you  for  anything  else.  And 
little  Cora,  whose  beauty  and  childish  grace  divided  Irving's 
heart  with  Estelle,  was  to  me  vapid  and  uninteresting,  because 
my  soul  had  room  for  but  one  idol,  and  that  idol  Zana  !" 

I  grew  heart-sick  and  felt  myself  turning  pale.  Was  it 
true  ? — could  the  heart  of  man  be  so  vile  ?  George  Irving  the 
slave  of  Estelle,  and  Cora,  my  poor  Cora  I — 

"  You  speak  of  Irving,"  I  said,  in  a  voice  that  shook,  though 
I  made  great  efforts  to  compose  it;  "  and  of  Estelle — tell  me — 
tell — where  is  that  lady  ?" 

"  What  1  are  you  ignorant  that  she  is  in  Scotland,  she  and 
her  mother,  consoling  the  countess,  and  only  waiting  for  the 
decencies  of  mourning  to  be  over,  for  the  wedding  ?" 

A  faintness  seized  me.  Poor,  poor  Cora,  this  would  kill  her, 
it  was  killing  me.  Estelle"  Irving,  her  husband,  the  thought  was 
a  pang  such  as  I  had  never  felt  before  ;  to  Cora  T'could  have 
given  him  up,  but  Estelle,  from  my  soul  I  abhorred  her. 

"  You  are  silent,  Zana,"  said  my  companion.  "  You  will 
reflect  on  what  I  have  said.  Remember  it  is  not  the  penniless 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  385 

tutor  who  would  have  divided  his  crust  with  you  before,  who 
asks  your  hand  now  ;  I  possess  expectations — certainties  that 
even  the  haughty  Estelle  would  not  reject.  The  Marston  Court 
living  is  one  of  the  best  in  that  part  of  England;  I  have  already 
taken  orders." 

"  But  I  thought  the  Marston  Court  living  was  promised  to 
Mr.  Clark,  poor  Cora's  father,"  I  exclaimed. 

"  By  Lord  Clare,  yes  ;  but  his  sister,  you  know,  has  her  own 
ideas,  and  since  that  unpleasant  affair  of  the  daughter,  she 
refuses  to  think  of  it." 

"  Oh,  Cora  !  Cora  1  what  have  you  done  1"  I  cried,  weeping 
bitterly  ;  then  struck  with  sharp  indignation,  I  looked  up,  dash 
ing  the  tears  aside.  "  And  that  lady — that  vile,  unwomanly 
countess — she  dares  to  punish  a  good  old  man  for  the  sins  of  his 
child,  while  she  urged  him,  the  traitor,  who  tempted  her  to  ruin, 
into  a  position  which  compels  him  to  abandon  her." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  he  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper,  so 
,  deeply  had  my  desperate  words  excited  him. 

"  You  know — you  know  1"  I  said,  breaking  forth  afresh ; 
"  why  force  me  to  utter  that  detested  name  ?" 

He  took  my  hand.  I  did  not  withdraw  it,  for,  at  the 
moment,  even  his  sympathy  was  welcome.  Sighing  deeply,  he 
lifted  it  to  his  lips.  I  arose,  determined  to  leave. 

"  You  will  not  leave  me  thus  without  answer,  without  hope  ?" 
he  said. 

"  I  have  but  one  answer  to  give,  and  no  hope,"  was  my  firm 
reply. 

He  looked  at  me  an  instant,  growing  pale  as  he  gazed. 

"  You  love  another  still,  and  believe  he  loves  you,"  he  said, 
with  a  slow  curve  of  the  lip. 

"  Hold  I"  I  cried,  stung  with  shame  at  the  remembrance  that 
I  had  once  confessed  this  love  and  gloried  in  it ;  "  I  do  not  love 
another.  It  is  not  in  my  nature  to  give  anything  but  detesta 
tion  to  treachery  and  vice  like  his." 

"  Then  spite  of  your  words  I  will  hope,"  he  cried,  seizing  my 
hand  and  kissing  it. 

17 


386  THE     ISLAND     COVE. 

Before  I  could  remonstrate  he  was  gone,  disappearing  down 
a  grassy  hollow  that  sloped  to  the  little  cave  where  his  boat 
was  lying.  As  he  sprang"  into  the  boat,  I  saw,  out  upon  the 
lake,  lying  sleepily  on  the  water,  another  shallop  in  which  a 
single  fisherman  sat  with  a  rod  in  his  hand.  His  face  was 
toward  me,  and  it  seemed  that  he  was  gazing  upon  the  spot 
where  I  stood.  How  long  this  solitary  individual  had  been 
upon  the  lake  I  could  not  conjecture,  but  my  heart  told  me  who 
it  was  ;  the  nearness  of  his  presence  held  me  in  a  sort  of  facina' 
tion,  and,  like  one  in  a  dream,  I  saw  the  boat  glide  toward  the 
shore,  and  Irving  spring  out — a  moment,  and  we  stood  face  to 
face. 

We  gazed  at  each  other  breathlessly.  He  was  much  excited, 
and  looked  upon  me  with  an  air  of  impetuous  reproach. 

"  It  is  you,  then,  and  here,  Zana — I  did  not  believe  it — I 
would  not  believe  it  even  now,  the  whole  thing  seems  false  1" 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  find  me  in  this  place,  I  can  well 
believe,"  was  the  sarcastic  reply  that  sprang  to  my  lips. 

"  No,"  he  said  passionately,  "  I  did  not ;  they  told  me  you 
had  fled  from  home  in  the  night ;  but  that  you  would  come 
here,  and  that  I  should  find  you  thus,  the  thought  would  have 
seemed  sacrilege.  Great  heavens,  is  there  nothing  trustworthy 
on  earth  ?" 

His  passion  confounded  me.  By  his  words  one  would  have 
thought  me  an  offender,  not  him.  I  did  not  know  how  to  reply, 
his  air  and  speech  were  so  full  of  accusation.  He  saw  this  and 
came  close  to  me. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  rich  with  wounded  tenderness, 
"  leave  this  place  ;  go  back  to  Greenhurst,  Turner  will  receive 
you  as  if  this  miserable  escapade  had  never  been.  This  is  no 
shelter  for  you  ;  these  honest  old  people  up  yonder  are  too 
good  for  the  cheat  practised  upon  them." 

"  Cheat — I — explain,  sir  !  your  language  is  incomprehen 
sible,"  I  cried,  breathless  with  indignation.  "  If  there  is  impo 
sition,  let  him  that  practises  it  answer  ;  this  air  of  reproof  ill 
becomes  you,  sir  1" 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  387 

"  I  may  have  been  too  rude,  Zana,  but  the  shock,  the  pain 
of  finding  you  here — for  I  saw  all  that  passed  on  the  island,  and 
hoping  still  that  distance  had  deceived  me,  came  to  convince 
myself." 

"  Convince  yourself  of  what  ?"  I  questioned. 

"Of  your  unworthiness,  Zana." 

His  voice  sunk  as  he  said  this,  and  tears  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Of  my  unworthiness  ?"  I  said,  burning  with  outraged  pride. 
"  In  what  one  thing  have  I  been  proven  unworthy  ?" 

"  Are  you  not  here  ? — have  you  not  fled  from  your  natural 
protectors  ?" 

"  And  your  mother  has  allowed  a  doubt  on  this  question  to 
rest  on  me,  even  with  you  1"  I  said,  calmed  by  the  very  force 
of  my  indignation.  "  Listen  ;  I  left  home  because  it  was  the 
only  way  to  save  my  benefactors  from  being  turned  help 
less  upon  the  world  by  your  countess  mother.  I  left  secretly, 
well  knowing  that  if  those  good  people  knew  the  price  I  paid 
for  their  tranquillity,  they  would  have  begged  on  the  highway 
rather  than  consent  to  my  departure.  I  had  one  other  friend 
in  the  world,  an  elderly  man  of  my  mother's  people.  He  is  a 
safe  and  wise  person,  and  with  him  I  go  to  the  tribe  from 
whence  my  mother  fled  when  the  curse  of  your  uncle's  love  fell 
upon  her." 

"  But  this  is  not  the  way  to  Spain.  The  man  who  has  just 
left  you  cannot  be  that  friend,"  he  answered;  "  how  came  you 
here  with  him  in  the  hills  of  Scotland  ?" 

"  I  came  to  save  " 

I  broke  off  suddenly,  struck  with  the  imprudence  of  inform 
ing  him  that  my  object  was  to  rescue  Cora  from  his  power. 

"  To  save  whom?  oh,  speak,  Zana!  let  me  believe  your  object 
here  a  .worthy  one." 

This  was  strange  language.  Had  he  not  guessed  already 
that  my  love  for  poor  Cora  Clark  had  brought  me  to  the  high 
lands  ?  Such  hypocrisy  was  sublime  ;  I  almost  found  admira 
tion  for  it  rising  in  my  heart. 


388  THE     ISLAND     COVE. 

"  See,"  I  cried,  pointing  out  Chaleco,  who  stood  at  some 
distance  on  the  shore,  "  yonder  is  the  man  with  whom  I  left 
Greenhurst,  and  with  whom  I  leave  these  hills  in  less  than 
twenty-four  hours." 

He  stepped  a  pace  forward,  searching  Chaleco  with  his  eyes. 
The  cloud  went  softly  out  from  his  face,  and  when  he  turned  a 
look  of  confidence  had  supplanted  it. 
"  Zana,  is  this  the  truth  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  tell  you  aught  but  the  truth  ?"  I  answered. 
He  looked  eagerly  into  my  eyes  ;  his  own  flashed  ;  his  face 
took  the  expression  of  one  who  forms  a  sudden  decision. 
"  And  you  leave  to-morrow  ?" 
"  Yes." 

"  And  for  Granada  ?" 
"  For  Granada,  I  suppose." 
"  With  that  man,  and  no  other  ?" 

"With  no  other  man,"  I  answered,  laying  an  emphasis  on 
the  word  man  ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  heed  it  as  I  expected. 

"  Zana,  one  word  more — answer  from  your  soul — do  you  love 
me  yet  ?" 

Outraged  and  insulted,  I  drew  myself  up.     "  How  dare  you, 
the  promised  husband  of  Estelle,  the  lover  of — of  "-   —  Passion 
stifled  me,  I  could  not  utter  Cora's  name. 
He  seemed  surprised. 

"  I  am  not  the  promised  husband  of  Estelle  ;  I  love  no  wo 
man  living  but  yourself,  Zana." 

"  Me  ? — can  you  say  that  here — here,  and  not  shudder  at 
the  treason  ?" 

"  I  can  say  it  anywhere,  Zana." 

He  looked  sincere,  his  voice  was  sweet  as  truth,  and  so  like 
it  that  a  thrill  of  exquisite,  joy  stirred  my  whole  system  as  I 
listened. 

"  You  believe  me,  Zana  ?" 

I  thought  of  Cora,  and  could  not  answer.  Had  he  in  truth 
ceased  to  love  her  ?  Could  villany  so  deep  appear  so  honest  ? 
He  mistook  my  silence  and  went  on. 


THE     ISLAND     COVE.  389 

"  Forgive  me,  Zana,  if  I  read  my  answer  in  that  bright  face. 
You  love  me  as  I  love  you." 

I  made  an  effort  to  contradict  him,  but  the  words  died  in  my 
throat,  and  he  went  on. 

"  It  is  true,  Lady  Catherine  desires  me  to  marry  another  ; 
but  while  you  love  me  I  never  will.  True  she  would  cast  me 
off  and  leave  me  adrift  on  the  world  for  seeking  you  as  I  have 
this  day;  but  I  love  you,  Zana;  speak  but  the  word,  and  I  will 
take  you  by  the  hand,  lead  you  to  her  presence,  and  proclaim 
you  my  wife." 

"Not  me — not  me;  there  is  another  whom  you  must  so  pro 
claim." 

He  did  not  heed  me,  but  went  on  impetuously  as  at  first. 

"  My  mother  may  disown  me;  thank  God,  she  cannot  forever 
disinherit ;  we  may  have  struggles ;  but  what  then  ?  we  have 
youth,  strength,  ability  and  love  to  conquer  all.  Come  with 
me  now,  and  in  ten  minutes'all  the  laws  under  heaven  cannot 
separate  us." 

"  In  ten  minutes  ?"  I  questioned,  thinking  of  poor  Cora  with 
painful  self-abnegation,  for  never  was  a  heart  tortured  like 
mine;  "  ah,  if  ten  little  minutes _can  redeem  your  obligations  to 
her,  why  wait  ?  make  this  other  your  wife  to-day." 

"  Can  you  counsel  this,  Zana  ?  Even  you  desire  me  to  wed 
a  woman  whom  I  neither  love  nor  respect  ?" 

The  blood  began  to  burn  in  my  veins.  How  dare  he  speak 
thus  of  the  poor  girl  whose  sole  fault  was  her  fatal  affection  for 
himself  ?  These  indignant  thoughts  sprung  to  my  lips,  but  as  I 
was  about  to  utter  them,  Chaleco  came  up.  Irving  saw  him, 
and  addressed  me  hurriedly  once  more. 

"  Speak,  Zana,  before  yon  strange  guardian  comes.  I  give 
up  all — I  offer  all  ;  speak,  and  you  are  my  wife." 

"  Never  !"  I  exclaimed,  almost  fiercely,  "  never,  so  help  me 
heaven,  will  I  marry  a  man  whose  honor  binds  him  to  another, 
and  that  other  " 

"  Enough  !"  he  exclaimed,  wringing  my  hand  hard,  and  drop 
ping  it;  "  you  never  loved  me  ;  farewell  1" 


390  THE     ISLAND     COVE. 

He  turned  away  and  darted  around  a  neighboring  rock. 
When  Chaleco  came  up  his  boat  was  far  out  on  the  lake,  and  1 
sat  watching  it  with  the  heaviest  heart  that  ever  cumbered  a 
human  bosom. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  Who  was  the  young  man  who  left 
you  just  now  ?"  said  Chaleco,  looking  after  the  boat  suspi 
ciously,  as  he  entered. 

"  It  was  George  Irving;  he  wished  to  make  me  his  wife" 

I  could  not  go  on,  my  voice  was  choked  by  sobs. 

"  His  wife?"  said  the  gipsy,  with  a  scornful  laugh;  "so  he  has 
found  out  the  old  books,  has  seen  the  register,  knows  the  road 
to  save  himself — cunning  young  fellow  1" 

I  looked  at  Chaleco  in  astonishment ;  his  hateful  laugh 
annoyed  me  terribly. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  these  old  books  ?  how  could 
they  affect  him  or  his  offer  ?  he  knew  before  that  I  was  Lord 
Clare's  child  ?" 

"  But  he  did  not  know  before  that  you  are  Lord  Clare's 
heiress,  a  countess  in  your  own  right — one  of  the  richest  women 
in  England  ?" 

"  Are  you  mad,  Chaleeo,  raving  mad  ?" 

"  Almost — but  with  joy,  my  Gitanilla.  Listen  !  your  mother 
was  married  to  Lord  Clare.  I  do  not  speak  of  the  Alhambra 
ceremony,  but  here,  legally  by  the  laws  of  Scotland,  under 
which  you  were  born.  In  this  country,  a  man  has  but  to  live 
with  a  woman,  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife,  before  witnesses, 
and  she  is  a  legal  wife,  her  children  legal  heirs  before  any  court 
in  Great  Britain.  We  have  this  proof  here,  in  Lord  Clare's 
own  writing,  in  the  old  people  with  whom  he  left  your  mother." 

"  And  how  did  you  know  of  this  law,  Chaleco  ?" 

"  Zana,  there  is  not  a  thing  that  could  affect  you  which  I 
have  'not  studied  to  the  centre.  Hall'  my  life  has  been  given 
up  that  you  might  prosper  ;  and  now,  my  beautiful  countess, 
comes  our  triumph." 

With  these  triumphant  words  Chaleco  went  back  to  his  fire 
again. 


THE     SHEEP-FARMER.  391 


CHAPTEE  LIL 

THE    SHEEP-FARMER   AND    HIS    WIFE. 

I  LEFT  the  rock  which  had  sheltered  me,  and  went  in  search 
of  Cora,  resolved  at  once  to  expose  the  perfidy  so  cruelly  en 
forced  upon  me.  I  found  her  sitting  drearily  beneath  .the 
larches.  At  my  approach  she  lifted  her  head  with  a  look  of 
sullen  apprehension,  as  if  she  dreaded  further  importunity.  I 
was  terribly  excited,  and  breathless,  and  doubtless  pale.  It  was 
impossible  for  me  to  begin  my  painful  subject  with  delicacy  or 
caution. 

"  Cora,"  I  said,  "  Cora,  I  have  seen  him — he  is  a  wretch — 
he  is  infamous  !" 

"  Seen  him  ! — seen  him  !  when  ?  where  ?"  she  cried,  looking 
wildly  around. 

"  Yonder,"  said  I,  almost  lifting  her  from  the  earth  and  drag 
ging  her  forward  to  a  point  from  whence  the  boat  could  be  seen 
close  by  the  opposite  shore;  "  yonder  he  goes;  I  have  been  plead- 
iug  with  him  in  your  behalf.  I  besought  him  not  to  leave  you 
with  this  terrible  reproach  on  your  name." 

''Well,  well,"  she  gasped. 

"  He  refused — he  spoke  of  you  as  a  person  whom  he  could 
not  respect." 

"  No — no  !  not  that !  not  that  1"  she  almost  shrieked,  clench 
ing  her  1  lands  together.  * 

<(  Worse,  Cora,  worse — he  dared  to  offer  his  love  to  me — his 
vile,  traitorous  love.  Before  this  he  has  done  the  same  thing  ; 
but  now  it  was  more  direct,  more  passionate.  He  offered  to 
brave  Lady  Catherine,  and  break  all  ties  for  my  sake,  this  very 
day." 

I  paused  in  this  headlong  speech  ;  my  words  had  turned  'her 


392  THE     SHEEP-FAKMER 

to  marble.  She  stood  thus  white  and  rigid  for  ajmoinent, 
then,  like  a  statue  hurled  from  its  support  fell  prone  upon  the 
earth  ;  her  face  downward  and  clutching  the  turf  with  both 
hanus. 

I  shrieked  and  fell  back  from  her  in  dismay,  startled  by  the 
suddenness  of  her  fall. 

She  remained  still,  and  but  for  a  faint  quivering  of  her  fingers 
in  the  grass,  I  should  have  believed  that  she  had  dropped  down 
dead. 

"  Cora  1"  I  cried,  "  Cora,  my  poor  Cora,  are  you  hurt  ?" 

I  bent  down  and  attempted  to  lift  her  from  the  earth,  but 
she  shrunk  from  me  moaning  and  shuddering.  This  repulse 
was  not  enough,  I  wound  my  arm  around  her  and  covered  her 
golden  hair  with  my  kisses. 

"  6on't — don't,  your  kisses  sting  me  !  I  would  rather  have 
vipers  creeping  through  my  hair  I" 

Wounded  by  her  words,  I  desisted  and  drew  back.  After  a 
little  she  moved,  and  I  saw  her  face.  It  was  pallid  and  stony ; 
her  eyes  were  heavy,  and  a  violet  tinge  lay  beneath  them.  A 
look  of  touching  grief  impressed  that  child-like  mouth,  which 
began  to  quiver  as  her  eyes  met  mine. 

"  What  ? — what  have  I  done,  Cora  ?"  was  my  tearful  ques 
tion,  for  the  anguish  in  those  sweet  eyes  filled  me  with  unuttera^ 
ble  dismay. 

"  I  heard  all  that  you  said— all,  every  word  I"  she  answered, 
laying  her  head  helplessly  down  on  the  grass  again.  "  Every 
word,  Zana  1  You  never  told  me  a  falsehood  in  your  life,  but 
I  must  not  believe  this  ;  it  would  kill  me  here,  at  your  feet." 

My  heart  sunk.  She  knew  how  worthless  he  was  now,  when 
knowledge  was  despair.  We  had  been  rivals  before  she  became 
a  victim,  that  she  knew  also. .  No  wonder  she  shuddered  when 
I  touched  her — no  wonder  those  sweet  features  were  pallid, 
and  those  white  fingers  sought  to  work  off  the  agony  of  her 
soul  by  tearing  the  senseless  turf. 

"Cora,"  I  said,  full  of  the  most  tender  compassion,  "I  have 
done  you  no  wrong,  and  never  will.  Since  the  day  I  was  sure 


AND     HIS     WIFE.  393 

that  you  loved  him,  I  have  never  willingly  been  in  his  presence. 
Is  this  no  sacrifice,  Cora  ?" 

"  Then  you  did  love  him  once  ?"  she  said,  looking  up,  as  if 
surprised.  "  No  wonder,  who  could  help  it.  But  he,  Zana, 
Zana,  it  kills  me  to  think  of  that — he  loves  you ;  and  I — I,  0 
my  God — my  God,  what  have  I  done  ?" 

She  began  to  cry,  and  for  a  time  her  form  was  convulsed 
with  tears.  I,  too,  wept,  for  the  same  hand  had  stricken  us 
both.  When  this  storm  of  sorrow  had  passed,  she  lay  quite 
passive  and  inert  upon  the  grass,  a  single  tear  now  and  then 
forcing  itself  through  her  thick  lashes,  and  a  quiver  stirring  her 
lips  as  *we  witness  in  a  grieved  child. 

During  some  minutes  we  remained  thus,  when  she  arose  and 
began  to  arrange  her  hair,  sitting  on  the  ground,  but  her  hands 
trembled,  and  the  tresses  fell  away  from  them.  I  sat  down  by 
her  and  smoothed  the  heavy  masses  with  my  hand.  She  leaned 
toward  me,  sobbing. 

"  It  does  not  feel  like  a  viper,  now,  Cora  I"  I  whispered. 

She  threw  herself  into  my  arms. 

"  Oh,  Zana,  Zana,  what  shall  I  do  ?  What  will  become  of 
me?" 

I  folded  her  in  my  f  arms,  and  kissed  the  quivering  whiteness 
of  her  forehead,  till  it  became  smooth  again. 

"  Come  with  me,  love — come  to  the  good  father  who  is  pining 
to  death  for  a  sight  of  his  darling." 

"  Yes,  I  will  go,  Zana.  I  will  never  see  him  again — never, 
never.  Oh,  God  help  me — never  I" 

I  could  not  avoid  a  throb  of  selfish  joy  as  she  said  this  ;  but 
grateful  and  relieved  folded  her  closer  in  my  arms. 

"  Come  now,"  she  said,  struggling  to  her  feet  ;  "  take  me 
away.  Let  him  go  to  the  house  and  find  the  room  empty,  per. 
haps — perhaps  that  will  make  him  feel." 

She  began  to  weep  afresh,  and  fearing  that  she  would  sink  to 
the  earth  again,  I  cast  my  arm  around  her.  "Let  me  help 
support  you,  Cora." 


394  THE      SHEEP-FAKMEK. 

"  Yes,  yes,  for  I  am  a  feeble  creature,  Zana,  but  stronger  in 
some  points  than  you  think  !" 

_  We  moved  on  through  the  larch  groves,  uttering  broken  sen 
tences  like  these,  half  tears,  half  exclamations,  till  a  sudden 
curve  brought  us  close  to  Chaleco.  His  sylvan  meal  was  'ready, 
but  neither  of  us  could  partake  a  morsel  of  it.  With  natural 
tact  he  did  not  urge  us,  but  observed  everything,  doubtless  mak 
ing  his  own  comments.  We  entered  the  boat,  and  without  ask 
ing  a  question  the  gipsy  rowed  us  toward  the  opposite  shore. 

We  ascended  to  the  house,  and  conducted  Cora  at  once  to 
her  room.  All  she  asked  was  darkness  and  solitude.  I  had 
seen  her  on  the  bed,  passive  and  worn  out  with  the  storm  of 
sorrow  that  had  swept  over  her.  Chaleco  joined  me  in  the  next 
room. 

"  Let  her  sleep  if  she  can,"  he  said  ;  "you  and  I  must  go  in 
yonder  ;  we  have  some  questions  to  ask  of  the  old  people." 

Chaleco  took  me  to  the  kitchen.  An  old  woman  was  on  the 
hearth,  spinning  flax  ;  and  at  a  back  door  where  the  sun  lay 
warmly,  sat  a  stout  old  man  smoking.  I  had  not  seen,  or  more 
probably  not  observed  this  couple  before,  but  now  they  struck 
me  as  familiar,  like  persons  lost  sight  of  from  childhood.  Chaleco 
went  out  and  sat  down  by  the  old  man,  while  I  drew  toward 
the  woman,  and  asked  some  questions  regarding  her  work.  She 
gave  a  little  start,  looked  up,  and  evidently  disappointed,  began 
fumbling  in  her  pocket  for  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  which  were 
eagerly  placed  across  her  nose. 

Never  did  I  undergo  a  perusal  of  the  face  like  that.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  grey  eyes  under  those  glasses  grew  keen 
and  large  as  they  gazed.  At  length  she  started  up,  breaking 
the  thread  from  her  distaff,  and  hurried  toward  the  back  door 
with  every  appearance  of  affright. 

"  Guidman — guidman,  coom  here,"  she  said,  "  coorn  and  see 
the  young  gipsy  leddy  !  As  God  is  above  all,  she  is  here,  body 
and  soul  1" 

11  Gang  awa,  woman,  these  new  fangled  barnacles  are  deceiv 
ing  things.  Ye  dinna  see  as  ye  did,"  answered  the  old  man, 


AND     HIS     WIFE.  395 

deliberately  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  by  tapping  the 
bowl  on  his  thumb  nail. 

"  Well,  then,  look  for  yoursel,  guidman,"  said  the  dame,  tak 
ing  me  by  the  shoulders,  and  half  pushing  me  toward  the  door. 

When  the  old  man's  eyes  fell  on  my  person  he  stood  up  and 
dropped  his  bonnet. 

"  A  weel,  a  weel !"  he  exclaimed,  "  wonders  will  never  cease; 
na  dout  it's  the  leddy  hersel  with  hardly  a  year  on  her  heed 
sin  she  went,  years  sine,  with  the  bairn  in  her  arms."  Then 
turning  to  Chaleco,  he  said,  "  Ye  wer  speerin  about  the  stranger 
leddy  ;  there  she  stans." 

"  But  the  lady  you  speak  of  would  have  been  older  than 
this/'  said  Chaleco. 

"It's  just  the  truth,"  answered  the  Scotchman,  sinking  on 
his  bench,  "  seventeen  years  wad  na  ha  left  her  sa  bonny,  whil 
mysel  an  the  guid  wife  ha  sunk  fra  hale,  middle-aged  folk  iuta 
owld  grey  carlins — but  then  wha  may  the  lassie  be  ?" 

"  You  spoke  of  a  child  !" 

"  Aye,  gude  faith,  it's  the  bairn  grown  to  be  what  the  mither 
was.  Weel,  weel,  time  maun  ha  it's  ain — but  wha  may  be  the 
ladie  hersel  ?"  "  A-whow  is  it  sae,  an  she  sa  bonny  ?" 

"  You  remember  her  well  then  ?"  persisted  Chaleco. 

"  Mind  her,  wherefore  no  what  sud  gin  me  forget  her,  or  her 
gowden  haired  guidman,  a  bonnier  pair  n'ier  staid  in  shoon.  It 
wad  be  na  easy  matter  to  forget  them,  I  tell  ye  !" 

"  Then  they  were  married  ?': 

"  Wha  iver  cud  doubt  it,  and  their  bairn  born  here  ?"  cried 
the  staunch  old  man,  proudly  ;  "  d'ye  think  we  harbor  lemans  ? 
There  was  guid  reason  why  it  sud  na  be  clash'd  about  ;  na 
doot  the  Earl  of  Clare  was  na  aue  to  put  shame  on  an  honest 
man's  name." 

"  Then  he  told  you  that  he  was  married  to  the  lady  ?" 

"  Tell  me,  yes  ;  wha  but  himself  sud  tell  me  ?" 

"  And  you  will  swear  to  this  ?"  questioned  Chaleco,  allowing 
none  of  the  eagerness  that  burned  in  his  eyes  to  affect  his 
voice. 


396  THE     SHEEP-FARMER. 

"  Swear,  d'ye  think  I  wad  say  at  any  time  in  my  life  what  I 
wad  na  swear  till  ?" 

"  And  the  lady — what  did  you  call  her  name  ?" 

"  Aurora  ;  it's  a  strange  name,  but  my  lard  said  it  had  a  fine 
meanin,  something  about  the  dawn  o'  the  day." 

"  Yes — yes,  it  was  a  pretty  name — but  when  together  how 
did  they  seem  ?  Was  he  in  the  habit  of  calling  her  his  wife  ? 
Did  she  call  him  husband  ?" 

"  Aye — aye,  baith  him  an  her  ;  she,  puir  thing,  took  great 
delight  i'  the  name." 

"  Then  you  knew  this  man  to  be  Lord  Clare  ?  Had  you 
seen  him  often  before  ?" 

"  Seen  him  ?  wha  else  learned  him  to  shoot  o'  the  hills  and 
fish-i'  the  loch  yonder  ?" 

"  And  you  would  know  this  girl  by  your  memory  of  her 
mother  ?" 

"  Sud  I  ken  the  lassie  by  mother's  look,  d'ye,speer  ? — sud  I 
ken  my  ain  bairn,  think  ye  ?  The  twa  are  as  like  as  twa  pease 
— the  same  blink  o'  the  ee — Jiair  like  the  wiug.  o'  the  raven — a 
step  like  the  mountain  deer.  Aye — aye,  I  ken  her  weel." 

I  drew  near  to  the  old  mau,  impatient  to  learn  more  of  my 
parents,  and  was  about  to  interrupt  him  with  questions  ;  but 
Chaleco  promptly  repelled  me  with  a  motion  of  the  hand,  giving 
a  waruing  look  which  I  dared  not  disregard. 

Too  much  excited  for  a  passive  listener,  I  left  them  and  en 
tered  Cora's  sitting-room.  This  little  chamber  had  a  double 
interest  to  me  now.  It  was  doubtless  the  place  of  my  birth. 
The  furniture  and  ornaments  so  superior  to  the  dwelling  itself 
had  been  my  mother's.  I  stood  by  the  window  looking  upon 
the  lake  which  had  filled  her  vision  so  many  times.  Sad 
thoughts  crowded  upon  me  as  I  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  room, 
determined,  not  to  interrupt  Chaleco  with  my  impatience,  and 
yet  panting  to  hear  all  those  old  people  had  to  say  of  my 
parents.  Directly  Chaleco  and  the  old  people  came  in,  and  once 
more  the  closet  containing  those  precious  books  was  searched. 
A  few  letters  from  Lord  Clare  to  my  mother,  were  found  j 


CHALEOO'S     TRIUMPH.  397 

Chaleco  seized  them  eagerly,  and  sat  down  to  compare  them 
with  my  mother's  journal,  which  he  had  never  restored  to 
me. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

CHALECO'S     TRIUMPH. 


WE  were  in  London,  Chaleco,  Cora  and  myself.  The  gipsy 
chief  sat  at  a  small  table  reading  some  pages  of  manuscript 
that  had  been  a  little  before  brought  to  him.  Cora  lay  upon 
the  sofa,  with  one  white  hand  under  her  still  whiter  cheek, 
gazing  with  her  great  mournful  eyes  upon  the  dim  wall  op 
posite. 

I  was  watching  Chaleco  ;  the  burning  fire  in  his  eyes,  the 
savage  curl  of  triumph  that  now  and  then  revealed  his  teeth,  as 
we  sometimes  see  in  a  noble-blooded  dog,  when  his  temper  is 
up.  This  expression  deepened  and  burned  as  he  read  on,  leaf 
after  leaf,  to  the.  end.  He  did  not  then  relinquish  the  paper, 
but  turned  back,  referring  to  passages  and  comparing  them 
with  others,  sometimes  remaining  whole  minutes  pondering  over 
a  single  line. 

At  last  he  laid  the  manuscript  down,  dashed  his  hand  upon 
it  with  a  violence  that  made  the  table  shake,  and  turned  his 
flashing  eyes  on  me. 

"  It  is  so,  Zana  ;  it  is  so  1" 

"  What  is  it  you  have  been  reading  to  yourself  ?"  I  in 
quired. 

"  Wait  a  minute — let  me  think  it  all  over.  Well,  this  paper 
is  from  the  best  solicitor  known  in  the  London  courts.  I  laid 
your  case  before  him,  the  Bible,  some  letters  that  I  found 
among  other  books  at  the  old  sheep  farmer's,  and  my  own 
knowledge." 

13* 


398  CHALECO'S     TRIUMPH. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  what  does  it  all  amount  to  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  this,  my  little  Zana,  Aurora's  child,  the 
scouted,  insulted,  outraged  gipsy  girl  is,  beyond  all  peradven- 
ture,  Countess  of  Clare." 

"  And  Lady  Catherine  ?" 

"  Is  Lady  Catherine  still,  nothing  more." 

"  But  her  son  V 

"  Oh,"  replied  Chaleco,  with  a  hoarse  laugh,  "  he  is  the  piti 
ful  dangler  to  a  woman's  apron  strings  that  he  ever  was." 

My  blood  rose,  I  could  not  endure  to  hear  the  man  I  had 
loved  so  deeply  thus  spoken  of. 

"  Hush  1"  I  said,  looking  at  Cora,  anxious  to  save  her  feel 
ings  rather  than  my  own,  "  Irving  does  not  deserve  this  ;  he  is 
no  idler,  whatever  you  may  think." 

I  had  expected  to  see  Cora  angry,  as  I  had  been,  by  this 
scornful  mention  of  her  lover,  but  she  lay  perfectly  still,  unim 
pressed  and  listless,  without  a  flush  or  a  glance  to  prove  the 
wounded  feelings  that  were  torture  to  me.  This  indifference,  so 
unlike  her  usual  impulsiveness,  surprised  us  both.  But  for  her 
paleness  and  the  blue  shadows  under  her  great  eyes,  we  could 
not  have  guessed  how  much  she  had  suffered  since  our  departure 
from  Scotland.  No  sick  child  ever  resigned, itself  more  pas 
sively  to  a  mother's  arms  than  she  had  yielded  herself  to  us, 
and  no  child  ever  pined  and  wasted  away  as  she  did.  All  her 
bloom  was  gone.  Cold  and  delicate  as  wax  was  the  hue  of 
her  countenance.  The  azure  shadows  I  have  spoken  of,  and  the 
veins  threading  her  temples,  gave  the  only  tinge  of  color 
visible  in  a  face  rosy  as  the  dawn  only  a  few  weeks  before. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  us,  though  this  .was  the  first  time 
we  had  mentioned  her  lover's  name  when  she  was  by.  Even 
Chaleco  seemed  to  feel  compassion  for  the  poor  child,  and 
dropped  his  voice,  drawing  closer  to  me. 

•'  She  does  not  heed,"  he  said,  "  but  still  it  seems  like  hurting 
her  when  we  speak  of  that  young  villain." 

"  Then  do  not  speak  of  him,"  I  rejoined,  sharply;  "  where  is 
the  necessity  ?" 


8     TRIUMPH.  399 

"  But  we  must  speak  of  them — they  have  possession  of  your 
rights." 

"  What  are  those  rights  ?" 

"  A  title — an  immense  property — power  in  this  proud  coun 
try — power  to  help  the  poor  Caloes,"  he  answered  with  enthu 
siasm — "  the  power  to  redeem  your  mother's  name  among  the 
haughty  souls  that  reviled  her — to  give  back  her  memory  to 
the  gipsies  of  Granada  pure  as  the  purest  among  their 
women." 

"  But  they  murdered  her — innocent  as  she  was,  they  mur 
dered  her  I"  I  cried,  shuddering  and  cold  with  memories  that 
always  froze  me  to  the  heart. 

A  gloomy  look  stole  over  Chaleco's  face;  his  hand  fell 
loosely  down,  and  he  whispered  huskily,  as  if  to  convince 
himself  : 

"  I  could  not  help  it;  she  gave  herself  up.  They  all  thought 
the  stain  of  his  unmarried  lips  was  on  her  forehead.  She 
would  die — it  was  he  that  killed  her,  not  the  gipsies — never  say 
it  again  while  you  live,  Zana,  never." 

I  could  not  answer,  but  felt  myself  turning  white  and 
cold.  He  saw  it,  and  grasped  my  hand,  crying  out  with  fierce 
exultation  : 

"  But  she  is  avenged,  and  now  that  we  have  the  power,  this 
proud  woman  and  vile  boy  shall  bite  the  dust,  Zana.  We  will 
strip  them,  humble  them,  trample  them  beneath  our  gipsy  feet. 
Aurora  shall  be  twice  avenged." 

"  Let  me  think,"  I  said,  drearily  pressing  my  forehead  to  still 
the  pain  there;  "  I  have  tasted  this  revenge  once,  and  it  was 
terrible  ;  when  such  fruit  falls,  dare  we  shake  the  vine 
again  ?" 

"Again  and  again,"  was  the  fierce  cry,  £  till  power  itself 
fails.  Are  you  thinking  of  mercy,  child  ?" 

"  I  am  thinking  of  many  things,"  was  my  vague  answer  ; 
"  but  God  will  help  me." 

Chaleco  sneered. 

"  He  has  helped  us,  if  you  choose  to  fancy  it,"  he  said ; 


400  CHALEOO'S     TRIUMPH. 

"  are  not  her  enemies  in  the  dust — have  you  not  revenge  in 
your  grasp  ?" 

"  No,"  I  said,  filled  with  the  holy  spirit  my  soul  had  invoked^ 
11  no,  Chaleco,  God  gives  revenge  to  no  human  being  ;  it 
belongs  to  him.  The  memory  of  my  dead  father  is  before  me — 
never  again  will  I  wrestle  with  these  weak,  human  hands  for 
power  which  belongs  to  omnipotence  alone." 

Chaleco  looked  at  me  sternly;  a  dark  frown  was  in  his  eyes. 

"  If  I  thought  this,"  he  exclaimed,  grasping  the  paper  as  if 
about  to  rend  it. 

He  stopped,  and  held  the  paper  motionless  between  his 
hands.  Cora  had  risen  from  the  sofa,  and  was  leaning- forward, 
looking  at  us. 

"  You  learned  that  of  my  father,  Zana,"  she  said,  while  a 
tender  smile  stole  over  her  lips;  "if  anything  troubles  you,  go 
back  to  him  ;  I  will." 

I  was  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  pathos  and  sweetness  of 
these  words.  My  soul  yearned  towards  the  suffering  child,  and 
that  instant  the  resolve  which  had  been  floating  mistily  through 
my  brain  took  form  and  shape.  If  the  disputed  estates  proved 
to  be  mine,  I  would  so  endow  that  gentle  girl,  that  Irving 
would  rejoice  in  the  chance  of  redeeming  his  prosperity  by  a  mar 
riage  with  her.  Her  fame  at  least  I  might  partially  restore. 

"  You  are  right,  my  Cora;  I  did  learn  all  that  is  good  in  me 
from  that  noble-hearted  man.  You  and  I  should  never  have 
left  his  side." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  sighing  heavily,  and  sinking  back 
to  the  sofa  again  ;  "  you  can  go  back,  as  for  me  " 

Cora  broke  off  and  began  to  weep.  I  was  glad  of  that,  poor 
thing.  Since  the  first  day  she  had  not. wept  in  my  presence 
after  our  adventijfc  in  the  Highlands.  I  left  her  unmolested, 
and  went  on  talking  with  Chaleco  more  connectedly  than  we 
had  yet  conversed.  In  a  little  time  he  convinced  me  that  my 
birth  was  legitimate,  and  my  claims  as  heiress  to  Lord  Clare 
would  scarcely  admit  of  dispute.  The  chain  of  evidence  was 
complete.  Though  driven  away  for  a  little  time,  Chaleco  had 


CHALECO'S     TRIUMPH.  401 

hovered  around  Greenhurst,  till  assured  that  I  had  found  a 
protector,  then  he  lingered  in  England  under  various  disguises, 
till  I  was  safe  under  the  roof  from  which  my  mother  had  fled. 
More  than  once  he  had  penetrated  to  my  sick  chamber,  where 
I  lay  delirious  with  fever,  when  I  was  by  chance  left  alone,  or 
when  the  nurse  slept  at  night.  Again  and  again  he  had  visited 
England  after  that,  assuring  himself  still  of  my  welfare  and 
identity.  In  short,  from  the  time  of  my  mother's  death  he  had 
never  lost  sight  of  me,  and  up  to  that  period  the  evidence  of 
old  Turner,  his  wife,  and  the  Scotch  farmer,  left  no  thread 
wanting  in  the  tissue  of  my  claim. 

"  And  if  this  is  so,  what  steps  must  be  taken  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  They  are  taken,"  answered  the  gipsy,  "  Lady  Catherine  has 
been  notified,  so  has  her  son." 

"  Well,  have  they  returned  any  reply  ?" 

"  The  lady  is  here." 

"  In  London  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  London." 

"  Did  the  mother  come  alone  ?"  I  inquired,  observing  that 
Cora  had  risen  to  her  elbow,  and  was  eagerly  regarding  us. 

"  Feeling  that,  like  myself,  she  was  anxious  to  know  if  Irving 
was  in  town  and  was  with  the  family,  I  asked  the  question,  half 
in  kindness  to  her,  half  to  still  my  own  craving  desire  for 
knowledge  on  this  point. 

"  Lady  Catherine,  her  son,  and  Mr.  Morton  came  together." 

Cora  uttered  a  faint  cry,  and  starting  up  began  to  pace  the 
room,  as  if  the  mention  of  that  name  had  stung  her  energies 
into  painful  activity. 

Still  I^was  not  fully  answered. 

"  And  is  no  other  lady  with  them  ?"  I  persisted. 

"  And  what  if  there  is,  how  should  you- tare  ?"  was  the 
answer  he  gave,  accompanied  by  a  look  so  penetrating  that  I 
shrunk  from  it. 

Cora  also  turned  and  gazed  at  me  with  her  great,  tearful  eyes, 
as  a  gazelle  might  look  at  the  hunter  that  had  chased  him  down. 
I  felt  the  whole  force  of  that  appealing  look,  but  went  on  ask- 


402  CHALECO'S     TRIUMPH. 

ing  questions,  determined  to  comprehend  everything,  and  then 
act  as  my  own  soul  should  teach. 

"  And  did  they  decide  on  anything  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  The  mother  wishes  to  contest — the  son  advises  her  to  yield; 
their  friends,  as  usual,  are  on  both  sides." 

"  And  so  nothing  is  settled  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  will  go  to  them  myself ;  rest  of  good  cheer,  Cora,  you 
shall  not  always  be  so  miserable." 

She  gave  me  a  wild  glance. 

"  Be  tranquil,  and  trust  me,  Cora,"  I  said,  full  of  my  project 
for  her  happiness  ;  "  it  is  for  you  this  good  fortune  has  come." 

"  There  is  no  good  fortune  for  me  on  earth,"  cried  the  poor 
girl,  clasping  her  hands,  "don't,  Zana,  don't  smile  so  ;  it  will 
set  me  to  hoping  impossible  things." 

"  Nothing  is  impossible,"  I  said,  smothering  the  selfish 
regrets  that  would,  spite  of  my  efforts,  rise  against  the  sacrifice 
I  meditated.  "  To  the  strong  heart  there  can  be  no  impossi 
bility — here  there  shall  be  none." 

Cora  came  close  to  me,  smiling  so  mournfully  and  shaking  her 
head,  as  I  can  fancy  Ophelia  to  have  done,  with  a  world  of 
sorrow  and  one  little  glow  of  hope  in  her  poor  face. 

"  Perhaps  he  thought  that  I  was  within  hearing,  and  so  did 
all  that  to  tease  me." 

As  this  soft  whisper  dropped  from  her  lips,  the  determination 
of  self-sacrifice  grew  strong  within  me.  Had  we  stood  at  the 
altar,  I  think,  at  the  moment,  I  should  have  given  Irving  up  to 
her  ;  she  was  so  trustful  and  helpless.  I  seized  upon  the  idea  ; 
better  far  was  it  that  she  should  fancy  anything  rather  than 
believe  in  his  faithlessness  after  all  that  I  intended  for  her. 

"  It  was  all  unfeeling  pleasantry,  I  dare  say  ;  careless  flirta 
tions,  that  meant  nothing." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  she  inquired,  stealing  closer  and 
closer  to  my  side. 

"  I  do  indeed  think  that  he  has  no  real  love  for  any  one  but 
you,  Cora." 


CHALECO'S     TRIUMPH.  403 

"In  truth  ? — in  solemn  truth,  Zana  ? — oh,  Zana,  Zana,  say 
that  you  caimot  believe  it  again." 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  his  love  for — for  that  other  person,"  I 
said,  shrinking  from  the  utterance  of  Estelle's  name. 

"  Solemnly,  you  think  this,  Zana  ?" 

"  Solemnly." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  looked  at  me  so  long  that  I  could 
watch  the  joy  as  it  broke  and  deepened  in  her  .violet  eyes,  and 
then,  satisfied  that  I  was  sincere,  sunk  back  to  the  sofa,  with 
the  most  heavenly  smile  I  ever  saw  beaming  over  her  face.  I 
sat  down  by  her  ;  she  wove  her  arms  around  me  and  pressed 
her  cheek  to  mine,  trembling  softly  with  that  exquisite  happi 
ness  which  follows  a  crushed  suspicion  against  those  we  love. 
I  could  not  resist  a  pang  of  jealous  envy,  for  it  is  much  easier 
to  make  sacrifices  to  one  that  suffers/  than  to  witness  the  joy 
which  our  self-bereavement  gives.  The  contrast  between  the 
rich  swell  of  happiness  that  broke  in  sighs  from  her  lips,  and 
the  heavy  sense  of  desolation  that  lay  upon  my  poor  Jieart, 
made  me  long  to  put  her"  away. 

But  soon  I  felt  her  kisses  wandering  amid  my  hair  and  over 
my  forehead,  mingled^  with  whispers  of  gratitude  and  smiles  of 
hope.  After  all,  Cora  loved  me,  and  I  was  making  her  happy. 
Most  solemnly  did  I  believe  all  that  I  had  said  of  Irving.  That 
he  did  not  love  Estelle  I  was  certain  ;  that  self-interest  had 
induced  his  professions  to  me  I  was  equally  convinced,  for 
Chaleco's  words  had  fastened  upon  me  when  he  said  that  Irv 
ing  had  sought  me  because  he  knew  of  the  evidence  I  had 
obtained  regarding  my  own  legitimacy  ;  and  Cora,  when  I 
asked  if  she  had  mentioned  the  register  which  she  found  to 
any  one  beside  myself,  answered,  "  only  to  him  ;"  but  the  tutor, 
Mr.  Upham,  had  read  them  long  ago,  when  he  lodged  a 
season  at  the  hill-side  cottage. 

Cora  had  told  me  this  on  the  day  we  left  the  Highlands,  and 
from  that  time  I  looked  upon  Irving's  pursuit  of  myself  as  a 
mercenary  effort  to  retrieve  his  own  desperate  fortunes  by  a 
marriage  with  his  uncle's  heiress.  Mr.  Upham,  too;  his  inter- 


404  IRVING     AND     HIS     MOTHER. 

ested  pursuit  was  now  fully  explained;  but  for  him  I  had  scarcely 
time  for  a  contemptuous  thought,  so  resolute  had  my  heart  be 
come  on  the  sacrifice  of  its  last  hope.  With  these  impressions, 
I  could  not  believe  that  Cora  had  any  rival  in  his  heart, 
whatever  his  interests  might  dictate.  So  I  soothed  her,  and 
strengthened  the  confidence  that  was  bringing  the  roses  back 
tq  her  cheek,  even  then.  Poor  thing,  she  trusted  me  so 
implicitly,  and  her  weary  heart  was  so  glad  of  rest  after  its 
anguish,  that  she  believed  like  a.  child. 

That  night,  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Clark,  saying  that  his  child  was 
found,  and  that  she  trusted  very  soon  to  tell  him  her  love  in  the 
dear  parsonage. 

With  regard  to  him,  also,  I  had  my  benevolent  dreams. 
There  was  the  Marston  Court  living.  If  Lady  Catherine  had 
no  right  to  the  estate,  her  power  to  appoint  an  incumbent  to 
the  living  did  not  exist,  but  was  mine ;  and  dear  Mr.  Clark,  God 
bless  him,  how  my  heart  swelled  at  the  thought  of  rescuing 
him  ^from  his  present  dependence,  by  appointing  him  rector 
instead  of  the  man  whose  character  had  degraded  the  holy 
office!  I  went  into  no  details,  but  wrote  a  cheerful  letter,  full 
of  hope,  determined  to  wait  for  the  unfolding  of  events  before 
I  explained  everything. 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

IRVING      AND      HIS      MOTHER. 

I  KNEW  that  the  Clares  bad  a  towji  house  in  Picadilly,  and 
quietly  stealing  out  in  the  morning,  when  Chaleco  was  out, 
I  called  a  hackney  coach  and  drove  there  at  once.  A  ponder 
ous  man,  in  mourning  livery,  opened  the  door,  and  looked  well 
disposed  to  order  me  down  the  steps  when  he  saw  my  humble 
equipage.  But  there  was  a  native  haughtiness  in  me  that  men 


IKVING     AND     HIS     MOTHER.  405 

of  his  class  are  sure  to  recognize,  and  though  new  to  the  world, 
I  was  neither  timid  nor  awkward  ;  besides  assumption  of  any 
kind  was  certain  to  arouse  all  the  contempt  and  resistance  of 
my  fiery  nature. 

I  inquired  for  Lady  Clare. 

"  She  was  in,  and  at  breakfast ;  would  I  call  again?" 

"  No  ;  I  must  see  the  lady  then." 

"  An  appointment  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  still  my  interview  with  this  lady  must  be  at  once." 

"He  did  not  think  she  would  admit  me,  her  ladyship  and 
Mr.  Irving  had  been  closeted  with  their  solicitors  all  the  morn 
ing." 

"  You  will  send  up  my  name  and  inquire,"  I  said  weary  with 
his  objections,  and  conscious  that  this  was  my  time  to  speak 
with  Lady  Catherine  when  fresh  from  her  consultation  with 
the  lawyers. 

My  imperious  manner  impressed  him  ;  he  inquired  my  name. 

"  Zana." 

His  round  eyes  opened  with  astonishment.  "  Miss  Zana,  is 
it  ?"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  puzzled  thought. 

"Zana,  that  is  all." 

He  beckoned  a  footman,  and  whispered  with  him.  The  man 
disappeared  up  some  mysterious  staircase  in  the  back  part  of 
the  hall.  The  porter  returned,  and  seated  himself  in  his  great 
gothic  chair,  took  a  position,  and  began  to  eye  me  as  stage 
kings  sometimes  survey  the  suppliants  that  come  before  them. 

The  footman  came  back,  walking  quickly,  and  with  noiseless 
step,  as  well-bred  servants  usually  do  in  England.  Her  lady 
ship  would  be  happy  to  receive  the  young  person. 

I  followed  him  in  silence.  Would  her  son  be  there  ?  This 
thought  made  my  limbs  tremble,  but  I  think  no  visible  agitation 
marked  my  demeanor  or  my  countenance. 

Lady  Catherine  was  in  her  dressing-room,  with  a  small 
breakfast-table  before  her,  covered  with  Sevres  china  and  glit 
tering  silver.  The  delicate  breakfast  seemed  yet  untasted,  save 
that  one  of  the  cups  was  stained  with  a  little  chocolate. 


406  IRVING     AND     HIS     MOTHER. 

Lady  Catherine  arose,  and  though  she  did  not  come  forward, 
stood  up  to  receive  me.  It  might  have  been  the  light  which 
fell  through  curtains  of  pale,  blue  silk,  but  she  certainly  looked 
unusually  white  and  haggard.  I  saw  her  thin  hand  clutch 
itself  among  the  folds  of  her  mourning  gown,  and  her  eyes 
wavered  as  they  met  mine. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  as  I  advanced  toward  the 
table.  I  think  she  was  struggling  to  speak  calmly,  for  her 
voice  was  unnatural  when  she  did  address  me. 

"Be  seated,"  she  said  falling  back  to  her  lounge,  not  with 
her  usual  languid  ease,  but  abruptly,  as  if  in  'need  of  support, 
"  be  seated,  I — I  am  happy  to  receive  you." 

I  sat  down,  firm  and  composed.  He  was  absent,  and  as  for 
that  woman,  there  was  nothing  in  her  to  discompose  me.  We 
seldom  tremble  where  we  do  not  respect. 

"  Your  ladyship  probably  knows  upon  what  subject  I  came," 
were  my  first  quiet  words. 

I  saw  by  the  motion  of  her  whole  body  that  she  could  with 
difficulty  restrain  her  rage. 

"  Yes,  and  I  thank  you  for  saving  me  another  interview  with 
your  very  singular  friend,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  was 
intended  to  be  playful,  but  faded  to  a  sneer. 

"  What,  madam,  has  Count  Chaleco  been  with  you  ?" 

"  If  you  mean  that  dark  browed  man  who  calls  himself  your 
protector,  he  has  given  us  the  honor  of  his  company  more 
than  once." 

"  I  do  mean  him,  and  he  is  my  protector !"  I  answered, 
stung  by  her  look  and  tone  rather  than  by  a  comprehension  of 
her  words. 

"  Of  course.  No  one  would  think  otherwise.  After  eloping 
with  him  in  the  night  from  .Greenhurst,  visiting  the  Highlands, 
and  domesticating  yourselves  together  in  London,  there  can  be, 
I  fancy,  little  doubt  left  on  that  point  1" 

I  began  to  comprehend  her  meaning.  Isolated  as  I  had  been 
from  the  world,  and  independent  of  its  usages,  I  could  not  mis 
take  the  sneering  expression  of  that  evil  face,  had  the  words 


IRVING     AND     HIS      MOTHER.  407 

failed  to  enlighten  me.  But  I  was  not  angry.  Scorn  of  the  very 
thought  that  she  applied  these  vile  imaginings  to  me  curved  my 
lips  with  a  smile.  I  could  not  have  forced  myself  into  a  word 
of  explanation  or  defence.  The  woman  seemed  to  me  only  a 
little  more  repulsive  than  before. 

"  Then,  madam,  if  my  friend  has  preceded  me  I  shall  have 
little  to  explain,  and  our  interview  will  be  more  brief.  You 
comprehend,  doubtless,  that  evidence  of  Lord  Clare's  residence 
with  my  mother  in  Scotland,  which  constitutes  a  legal  marriage, 
is  in  our  possession  ;  that  the  best  counsel  consider  me,  and  not 
your  ladyship,  the  inheritor  of  his  title  and  estates.  Indeed,  the 
record  of  my  birth,  in  his  own  handwriting,  where  my  mother 
is  mentioned  as  his  wife,  is  by  the  laws  of  Scotland  a  marriage 
in  itself." 

"  Yes,  all  these  things  have  been  repeated  to  me  ;  but  the 
opinion  of  lawyers,  fortunately,  is  not  exactly  the  decision  of 
legal  tribunals." 

"  Then  you  are  determined  to  contest  my  claims  ?" 

"  I  am  not  disposed  to  yield  mine  without  contest,  certainly." 

"  Madam,"  I  commenced  ;  and  now  every  nerve  in  my  body 
began  to  tremble,  for  the  great  moment  of  my  fate  had  arrived 
— "  madam,  in  this  contest,  if  it  becomes  one  in  an  English 
court  of  law,  the  life  and  reputation  of  your  only  brother  must 
be  cruelly  brought  before  the  world  ;  would  you  make  no  sacri 
fice  to  avoid  that  ?" 

"  But  if  this  same  brother  was  your  father  also,  it  is  for 
you,  not  me,  to  save  his  name  from  the  scandal  of  a  public 
court,"  she  rejoined,  sharply.  "  The  fact  that  he  married  Lady 
Jane  while  your  mother  was  alive,  I  would  willingly  conceal." 

"  No,  madam,  that  you  mistake.  My  mother  died  months 
before  Lord  Clare's  marriage  ?" 

"  How  and  when  did  she  die  ?" 

"  The  how  does  not  concern  your  ladyship.  As  for  the  when, 
I  was  present  when  she  died  near  the  City  of  Granada,  and 
though  a  child  at  the  time,  can  never  forget  it  ;  would  to  God 
it  were  possible.  After  that — months  after  it  must  have  been, 


408  IEVING     AND     HIS     MOTHER. 

for  we  had  travelled  from  Spain  between  the  two  events — I 
saw  the  cortege  pass  the  tent  where  I  lay,  returning  from 
my  father's  marriage  with  his  last  wife.  In  this  he  committed 
no  legal  fault — and  let  us  hope  intended  no  moral  wrong — 
though  a  deep  wrong  it  was,  from  beginning  to  end  ;  but  he 
doubtless  was  unmindful  of  the  singular  law  which  made  his 
first  marriage  binding." 

"  Then  what  is  there  to  conceal  ?  Why  should  we  shrink 
from  investigation  ?"  she  cried. 

"The  wrong  done  to  my  poor  mother,  alas  1  that  remains, 
and  I  would  do  anything,  give  up  anything  rather  than  have  it 
heaped  upon  my  father's  memory." 

"  And  what  were  these  mighty  wrongs,  if — as  you  are  trying 
to  prove — he  ever  acknowledged  her,  a  dancing  gipsy  beggar, 
a" 

"  Hush  1"  said  I,  with  a  power  that  must  have  been  impera 
tive,  "  you  shall  not  malign  my  mother." 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  waving  her  hand  scornfully,  "  you 
are  right.  Her  history  cannot  be  publicly  coupled  with  that 
of  our  house  without  leaving  infamy  upon  a  noble  name." 

"  Not  her  infamy,  madam  1" 

"  This  is  useless  and  impertinent,  miss,"  she  cried,  starting 
up  fiercely;  "  you  came  for  some  purpose.  What  is  it  ?" 

"  I  came,  if  possible,  to  save  the  scandal  of  a  law  suit  regard 
ing  the  Clare  eandom  and  estates.  I  would  shield  my  father's 
memory,  and  redress  the  wrongs  of  one  whose  fate  is  dearer 
than  my  own,  at  any  sacrifice," 

"  And  how  is  this  to  be  done  unless  you  yield  at  once  these 
preposterous  claims  ?" 

"  Madam,  your  son  1" 

"  Well,  what  of  him  ?"  she  cried  sharply,  and  with  gleaming 
eyes. 

"  The  succession  will  be  his  when,  when" 

"  When  I  am  gone,  you  wish  to  say,  but  that  is  a  frail  hope. 
I  married  when  a  child,  and  the  difference  between  Irving  and 
myself  is  so  little." 


IRVING     AND     HIS     MOTHEK.  409 

This  vanity  would  have  seemed  out  of  character  to  one  so 
full  of  haughty  malice  as  the  woman  before  me  ;  but  extreme 
vanity  is  more  frequently  found  connected  with  bad  qualities 
that  with  good  ones,  so  it  did  not  surprise  me. 

"  But  with  your  son  some  compromise  may  be  effected.  You 
would  doubtless  rather  surrender  the  unentailed  estates  to  him, 
than  to  one  so  hateful  to  your  ladyship  as  I  am  ?" 

"  That  may  be  readily  supposed  ?" 

"  Well,  madam,  to  one  or  the  other  you  must  resign  them  ; 
to  me  if  you  persist  in  useless  and  wicked  resistance  ;  to  him, 


"  Well,  if  what  ?" 

"If  by  marriage  with  the  person  whom  I  shall  select,  he 
secures  the  rights  which  I  claim  to  himself." 

"  That  is,  if  my  son,  like  his  uncle,  will  degrade  himself  with 
a  gipsy  stroller,"  she  replied,  with  insulting  bitterness. 

"  Madam,  this  is  base  ;  that  which  I  propose  saves  your  son 
from  degradation,  does  not  impose  it.  It  was  not  of  myself  I 
spoke  1" 

"  Of  whom,  then?     Is  there  another  claimant  ?" 

"  No.  As  the  legitimate  and  only  daughter  of  Lord  Clare, 
who  died  without  will,  I  have  the  sole  right  to  all  that  was  his. 
You  know  that  the  courts  will  confirm  this  right,  or  I  had 
never  been  thus  admitted  to  your  presence.  Your  eye  wavers  ; 
your  lips  curve  in  terror  rather  than  scorn.  In  your  soul  you 
feel  that  to  hold  possession  of  this  house  for  a  day  is  rank  usur 
pation  ;  your  lawyers  have  told  you  all  this  before." 

"  How  did  you  learn  that  ?" 

"  From  your  face,  madam  —  from  the  fact  that  you  do  not 
spurn  me  from  your  presence  as  of  old." 

She  smiled,  not  scornfully,  her  blue  lips  seemed  to  have  lost 
all  strength  for  so  strong  an  expression,  but  with  a  sort  of 
baffled  spite. 

"  And  so  you  would  take  the  estates  and  attach  my  son  as 
an  appendage  —  this  is  kind  !" 

"  Madam,  I  will  resign  all  right  to  these  estates  and  title  on 

18 


410  IRVING     AND     HIS     MOTHER. 

the  marriage  day  of  your  son — not  with  me,  the  hated  gipsy, 
but  with  Cora  Clark,  whom  he  loves,  and  who  loves  him. 
Greenhurst  and  the  title  to  rest  with  you  as  if  I  had  never 
existed — all  the  unentailed  property  to  be  divided  between 
your  son  and  Mr.  Morton,  whose  rights  we  cannot  honestly 
waive." 

Her  eyes  opened  wide  with  astonishment.  She  fell  back  on 
her  sofa,  and  folded  a  hand  over  them,  as  if  ashamed  of  appear 
ing  startled  by  what  I  had  said.  At  last  she  sat  upright  again 
and  looked  at  me  searchingly. 

"  You  will  do  this  1" 

"  I  will  1" 

"  Why  ? — your  motives  ?" 

The  tears  started.     I  felt  them  crowding  to  my  eyes. 

"  I  wish  to  see  them  happy." 

My  voice  faltered  ;  but  for  her  presence  the  agony  at  my 
heart  would  have  burst  forth  in  a  wail. 

"  And  that  will  make  you  happy  ?"  she.  said,  with  an  icy 
sneer.  "  You  will  remain  and  witness  the  joy  your  abnegation 
gives." 

''Never  !"  I  cried,  yielding  to  the  anguish  that  was  oppress 
ing  me.  "  I  will  go  among  my  mother's  people — go  " — I 
thought  in  my  innermost  heart — "go  to  the  barrancas  of 
Granada,  to  die  of  anguish  as  she  did  by  violence." 

"  And  you  will  leave  this  country  forever  ?" 

"  Madam,  I  will." 

"  But  this  girl,  this  Cora  Clark,  where  is  she  now  ?  Mr. 
TJpham,  the  new  rector,  sent  down  orders  that  her  father 
should  be  removed  from  the  parsonage — where  has  he  gone  ? 
How  are  you  sure  that  Irving  cares  for  her,  or  would  take  her 
at  any  price  ?" 

I  shrank  from  exposing  my  poor  friend's  weakness  to  the 
knowledge  of  that  heartless  woman  ;  she  seemed  ignorant  of 
her  son's  perfidy,  and  its  results  in  giving  Cora  to  my  protec 
tion.  I  rejoiced  at  this,  and  guarded  the  secret  of  their  mutual 
fault  as  if  it  had  been  my  own  life. 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  411 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

•  "  But  you  are  not  of  age  to  make  a  resignation  of  these 
fancied  claims  legal,  even  should  I  consent  to  unite  my  son  to 
this  nameless  girl." 

"  I  am  of  age  to  resist  all  action,  and  have  a  will  strong  as 
any  law.  If  I  am  silent  regarding  my  claims,  who  will  or  can 
urge  them  ?" 

"  But  we  have  only  your  word  1"  she  said,  softening  in  her 
tone,  and  interrupting  her  questions  with  intervals  of  thought. 

"  But  in  your  heart  you  know  that  to  be  enough.  Strive  as 
you  will,  my  truth  will  make  itself  believed." 

She  waved  her  hand,  rising. 

"  Stay  here,  I  will  speak  with  my  son.  Perhaps  you  have 
not  breakfasted  ;  ring  and  the  man  will  provide  fresh  chocolate. 
After  all,  this  is  a  strange  offer." 


CHAPTER  LV. 

SELF-ABNEGATION. 

• 

LADY  CATHERINE  went  out,  and  I  was  alone,  trembling,  help 
less,  filled  with  desolation— the  poor,  poor  gipsy  girl.  What 
had  Cora  clone  that  she  should  be  made  so  happy,  and  I  so 
miserable  ?  I  sat  down  stupefied  with  the  blank  darkness  that 
had  fallen  around  my  existence.  The  estate,  the  pomp,  the 
rank  that  I  had  given  up  were  nothing  ;  but  Irving — oh,  how 
my  poor  heart  quivered  and  shrunk  from  the  thought  that  he 
was  another's  forever  and  ever.  In  all  the  wide  world,  that 
desolate  barranca  in  Granada  seemed  the  only  spot  gloomy 
enough  to  conceal  misery  like  mine  1" 

A  full  hour  I  remained  with  my  elbow  upon  the  little  break 
fast-table  seated  among  the  cushions,  unmindful  of  their  luxut- 


412  SELF-ABNEGATION. 

rious  softness  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  rocks  heaped  near 
me.  I  could  only  feel  dumbly  that  with  my  own  hand  I  haM 
cast  all  hope  from  me.  This  thought  revolved  itself  over  and 
over  in  my  mind,  I  could  neither  change  nor  shake  it  off. 

At  last  the  door  opened  and  Lady  Catherine  came  in,  fol 
lowed  by  her  son.  He  was  greatly  changed.  All  the  bloom 
of  boyhood  had  settled  into  a  look  of  thoughtful  manliness  ;  his 
eyes,  almost  sad,  were  deeper  and  more  piercing  ;  his  manner, 
grave  ;  traces  of  anxiety  lingered  about  his  eyes  and  mouth, 
making  one  firm  and  leaving  shadows  beneath  the  other.  He 
came  close  to  me  and  rested  one  hand  on  the  table.  I  did  not 
rise,  but  sat  trembling  and  helpless  beneath  the  reproachful 
pride  in  his  glance.  The  apathy  had  left  me  ;  my  heart 
swelled  with  the  painful  joy  of  his  presence,  and  every  nerve 
thrilled  back  its  sympathy. 

"  My  mother  has  told  me  of  your  proposal,  Zana,"  he  said, 
in  a  clear,  but  not  untroubled  voice  ;  "  your  wish  is  a  generous 
one.  The  rights  you  would  surrender  are  great,  but  I  will  not 
accede  to  this  proposal." 

I  started  so  violently  that  one  of  the  Sevres  cups  fell  to  the 
ground.  A  cry  almost  broke  from  my  lips.  This  reprieve 
from  my  own  wishes  filled  me  with  joy. 

"Why,  why  ?"  I  could  not  as£  these  questions  aloud  ;  they 
fell  from  my  lips  4n  broken  whispers. 

"  Because  I  will  not  despoil  you  of  your  birthright — because 
I  do  not  love  the  lady  whom  you  propose  for  my  wife." 

"Not  love  her,  Mr.  Irving  ;  forbeaf  I" 

I  could  not  go  on  ;  his  mother's  presence  checked  me  ;  but 
once  more  my  heart  was  filled  with  indignation  at  his  audacity. 

"Then  you  refuse?"  I  said,Tising — "you  refuse  to  render 
this  poor  justice  to  one  who-loves,  who  has" 

Again  I  checked  myself.  Lady  Catherine  was  close  to  the 
table.  Irving  listened  patiently,  and  kept  his  eyes  fastened  on 
my  face,  as  if  asking  some  further  explanation. 

"  It  is  possible,"  I  said,  "  that  you  think  lightly  of  my  claims, 
and  thus  reject  the  sacrifice  I  would  make." 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  413 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  satisfied  that  your  claims  to  the 
estate  are  valid  ;  only  this  morning  I  joined  my  mother's  legal 
counsel  in  advising  her  to  yield  possession  at  once." 

"  And  this  inheritance  ?  Cora,  too  ?  Will  you  cast  them 
both  aside  because  it  is  Zana  who  offers  them  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  grave  smile. 

"  The  inheritance  I  can  easily  relinquish  ;  it  is  not  large 
enough  to  purchase  a  heart  like  mine,  Zana." 

"George,  George,  reflect,"  said  Lady  Catherine,  who  had 
been  listening  with  keen  anxiety  ;  "  the  girl  is  beautiful ;  her 
mother's  family  had  noble  blood  in  it." 

"  Mother,  hush  ;  I  will  work,  but  not  sell  myself  for  your 
benefit." 

I  arose,  shocked  by  the  deep  hypocrisy  of  the  man.  His 
look,  his  voice,  his  words,  how  noble  they  were  1  His  actions 
— the  household  traitor — how  could  he  compel  that  face  to  look 
so  firm  and  noble  in  its  sin  ? 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  turning  to  the  mother,  "  persuade  your 
son,  for  on  no  other  terms  can  my  father's  estate  remain  with 
you  or  yours." 

She  bent  her  head,  but  did  not  speak.  The  woman  seemed 
subdued  ;  all  her  sarcastic  spirit  had  left  her.  At  last  she  laid 
her  hand  on  Irving's  arm. 

"  George,  George,  remember  there  is  no  other  way." 

He  turned  upon  her,  smiling. 

"  Mother,  we  lived  honorably  and  well  before  my  uncle's 
death  ;  the  same  means  are  still  left  to  us." 

"  But  the  title,  the  estates,  I  cannot  give  them  up.  Will 
you  make  no  sacrifice  to  save  me  from  this  degradation  ?" 

"  Anything,  mother,  that  an  honorable  man  should  ;  but  to 
barter  myself,  no." 

I  saw  that  Lady  Catherine  was  becoming  angry,  and  spoke, 

"  Madam,  when  I  resign  the  inheritance,  your  son  knows  the 
terms.  Take  counsel — take  time  for  thought.  To-morrow,  at 
this  hour,  I  will  come  again,  alone  as  now  ;  that  will  be  our 
last  interview." 


414  SELF-ABNEGATION. 

My  words  struck  home.  Lady  Catherine  turned  white  as 
death,  and  by  the  glitter  in  her  eyes  I  saw  a  storm  of  rage  mus 
tering  ;  I  did  not  remain  to  witness  it.  Irving  held  open  the 
door  for  me.  Our  eyes  met  as  I  passed  out,  and  his  seemed  full 
of  reproachful  sorrow.  Why  could  I  not  hate  that  man  ? — why 
not  hurl  back  scorn  for  treachery  ? 

Cora  was  asleep  when  I  entered  the  little  room  which  we 
occupied  together.  It  was  the  sweetest  slumber  I  ever  wit 
nessed — so  calm,  so  full  of  infinite  quietude.  Worn  out  by  the 
harassing  sorrows  of  her  situation,  she  had,  up  to  the  evening 
previous,  been  wakeful  night  and  day,  but  the  few  words  I  had 
so  rashly  uttered  fell  like  dew  upon  her  eyelids,  and  all  night 
long  she  had  slept  by  my  side  tranquil  as  a  bird  in  its  nest  ;  in 
her  hopeful  serenity  she  had  dropped  away  in  dreams.  Thus  I 
found  her  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  a  soft  bloom  warming 
the  cheeks  that  twelve  hours  before  had  been  so  pale. 

My  own  words  had  done  all  this,  and  they  were  -all  a  decep 
tion.  I  had  deceived  myself,  and  worse,  worse  a  thousand 
times,  had  misled  her  also.  How  could  I  tell  her  this  ? — how 
break  up  the  exquisite  calm  of  that  repose  with  my  evil  tidings, 
for  evil  I  now  felt  them  to  be  ? 

The  sunlight  fell  through  a  half-closed  shutter,  kindling  up 
the  golden  tresses  of  her  hair,  as  they  fell  over  the  arm  folded 
under  her  cheek,  and  lay  in  masses  on  the  crimson  cushion  of 
the  sofa.  I  sat  down  by  her,  watching  those  sun  gleams  as 
they  rose  brighter  and  brighter  toward  her  forehead.  They 
fell  at  last  upon  her  eyelids,  which  began  to  quiver  ;  the  dark 
brown  lashes  separated,  and  with  a  sleepy  murmur  the  girl 
awoke. 

"  Oh,  you  have  come,"  she  said,  flinging  her  arms  around  my 
neck  ;  "  dear,  dear  Zana,  I  have  been  dreaming." 

"  Dream  on  !"  I  answered,  sadly  ;  "  if  I  only  had  the  power 
to  dream  also  !" 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Zana,  your  eyes  are  full  of 
tears  ?"  she  cried,  looking  eagerly  in  my  face,  and  kissing  it 
with  passionate  devotion.  "  Where  have  you  been  ?" 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  415 

• 

"  I  have  been  to  see  him,  Cora." 

She  held  her  breath,  and  looked  at  me — oh,  how  pleadingly — 
as  if  I  could  change  the  color  of  her  fate,  poor  child. 

"  Well,  Zana." 

I  could  not  endure  that  voice,  those  eyes,  but  flung  my  arms 
around  her,  and  held  her  close  to  my  bosom  as  I  answered — 

"  Forget  him,  Cora.  Let  us  both  forget  him.  He  is  an 
ingrate,  a" 

I  could  not  go  on,  for  her  cold  lips  were  pressed  wildly  to 
mine,  and  she  called  out — 

"  Don't,  don't,  Zaua — don't  speak  such  words  of  him  !" 

"  He  does  not  deserve  this  interposition,  Cora  ;  you  cannot 
guess  how  much  I  was  ready  to  sacrifice  that  you  and  he  might 
be  happy." 

"  And  he  would  not  listen  ?"  she  asked,  falling  sadly  back 
from  my  arms.  "  Still  you  thought  he  loved  me,  and  were  so 
certain  of  it  only  last  night." 

"  But  I  think  it  no  longer.  God  help  you,  my  poor  Cora — 
with  all  this  inheritance — and  I  offered  it — I  have  no  power  to 
make  him  feel." 

"  And  you  tried  to  bribe  him  into  loving  me  ;  that  was 
unkind,  Zana." 

"  No,  Cora  ;  other  reasons  which  you  do  not  comprehend 
influenced  what  I  did,  as  well  as  a  wish  to  make  you  happy. 
His  mother,  I  think,  would  have  yielded,  but  he  " — — 

"  His  mother,  Zana — he  has  no  mother." 

"  In  one  sense,  perhaps  not  ;  but  Lady  Catherine  " 

"  Lady  Catherine." 

"  Yes,  Lady  Catherine,  is  she  not  George  Irving's  mother  ?" 
I  cried,  surprised  by  her  bewildered  look  and  words. 

"  Yes,  surely  ;  but  then  what  is  George  Irving  to  me,  or 
Lady  Catherine  either,  save  that  she  in  some  sort  controls  his 
fortunes  ?" 

"  Cora  !"  I  almost  shrieked,  seizing  her  hands,  "  what  is 
this  ?  Who,  who  is  the  man  ?  Tell  me  it  is  not  George  Irving 
that  you  love,  and  I  will  fall  down  and  worship  you." 


416  SELF-ABNEGATION. 

* 

"  Why,  Zana,  are  you  wild  ?  How  should  I  ever  think  of 
another,  and  he  in  my  heart  always  ?" 

"  He — who  ?     Speak,  girl,  or  I  shall  indeed  be  wild  1" 

"  You  act  very  strangely,  Zana.  Only  now  you  told  me  that 
you  had  seen  Mr.  Morton,  and  talked  with  him  ;  you  gave  so 
many  painful  hints  about  him." 

I  seized  her  hands  again,  and  forced  down  the  tremulous  hope 
in  my  heart. 

"  Cora,  darling  Cora,"  I  said,  interrupting  my  words  with 
quick  gasps  of  breath,  that  I  had  no  power  to  stifle,  "  tell  me 
clearly,  use  few  words,  or  my  heart  will  break  with  this 
suspense*  Was  the  man  with  whom  you  left  Greenhurst  Henry 
Morton  ?" 

My  emotion  terrified  her.  She  grew  pale,  and  struggled  to 
free  her  hands. 

"  You  know  it  was  ;  are  you  going  crazy  ?  My  fingers — my 
fingers,  you  crush  them." 

"  And  it  was  Morton  ?" 

"  Yes— yes  I" 

"  And  you  have  no  love  for  Irving  ?  He  never  said,  never 
hinted  that  he  wished  you  to  love  him  ?" 

"  He — no.     Who  ever  put  the  idea  into  your  head  ?" 

I  seized  her  in  my  embrace,  and  covered  her  forehead,  her 
eyes,  her  hair,  with  rapturous  kisses.  I  knelt  at  her  feet,  and 
wrung  her  little  hand  in  my  ecstasy  till  she  cried  out  with  the 
anguish. 

"  Kiss  me,  Cora,  again,  again  ;  kneel  down  here,  Cora,  at 
my  side,  and  thank  God  as  I  do.  We  shall  be  happy,  darling, 
so  happy — my  head  reels  with  the  very  thought  of  it — my  heart 
is  so  full.  Let  me  weep  myself  still  here — here  on  my  knees, 
with  my  forehead  in  your  lap,  Cora,  Cora,  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  am  dying  1" 

And  now  the  tears  came  rushing  up  from  the  depths  of  my 
heart,  and  I  lay  upon  Cora's  lap,  sobbing  the  agony  of  my  old 
grief  away,  as  a  half-drowned  man  lies  upon  the  beach  where 
the  storm  has  tossed  him.  Oh,  how  great  was  the  wealth  of 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  417 

my  existence  that  moment.  Irving  did  not  love  another  ;  he 
was  mine,  mine,  all  mine  1 

Chaleco  came  in  and  interrupted  us.  He  inquired  the  cause 
of  my  emotion,  and  I  told  him.  The  tiger  that  my  first  words 
brought  to  his  eyes,  crouched  and  cowered  beneath  the  energy 
of  my  entreaties  to  be  freed  from  the  pledge  I  had  given  to 
bury  myself  with  his  tribe  in  Granada.  In  passion  like  mine 
there  is  almost  irresistible  eloquence,  and  iny  soul  was  burning 
with  it.  Perhaps  I  looked  more  like  my  mother,  thus  enkindled 
and  aroused. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  and  the  first  tears  I  ever  saw  in  his  fierce 
eyes,  burned  there  like  a  diamond.  "  Zana,  you  ask  a  terrible 
thing.  Like  your  mother,  I  swore  a  vow  to  Papita.  You  love 
my  enemy  and  hers  ;  you  cling  to  him  and  cast  the  gipsj 
aside.  But  even  better  than  that,  I  loved  her  and  her  child. 
I  give  up  my  oath  of  vengeance.  What  is  death,  if  Aurora's 
child  may  live  and  love  ?"  Chaleco  went  out ;  afterwards  I  re 
membered  all  the  force  of  his  words,  but  then  my  soul  panted 
for  solitude  and  thought.  I  spent  the  night  alone,  sleepless 
and  happy  as  few  mortals  have  the  capacity  of  being  on  this 
earth. 

I  knew  little,  and  cared  nothing  for  the  propriety  of  conven 
tional  life.  On  the  day  before,  I  had  promised  to  return  for 
Lady  Catherine's  final  answer  to  the  proposal  I  had  in  my 
ignorance  made.  I  went  and  inquired,  not  for  her,  but  for 
Irving. 

He  came  down  to  receive  me,  looking  pale  and  depressed. 
His  reception  was  cold,  his  look  constrained. 

To  this  day  I  cannot  tell  what  passed  between  us  during 
that  interview.  All  that  was  in  my  heart  I  poured  forth.  I 
remember  his  astonishment  and  his  rapture.  But  of  what  was 
said  I  have  no  distinct  idea;  all  was  a  whirl,  a  vortex  of  emotion. 

A  silence  that  seemed  like  heaven  followed,  and  then  we 
began  to  talk  more  rationally.  Oh,  the  exquisite  happiness  of 
that  entire  confidence — the  beautiful,  beautiful  joy  of  knowing 
that  I  was  his  affianced  wife,  the  only  person  he  had  ever 


418  SELF-ABNEGATION. 

loved!  In  the  first  sweet  outgush  of  confidence,  I  told  him 
everything.  He  seemed  shocked  and  greatly  surprised  at 
Morton's  perfidy;  but  when  I  told  him  of  Upham,  and  the 
power  he  had  exercised  over  our  lives,  by  the  cruel  suspicions 
instilled  into  my  belief,  his  indignation  was  so  mingled  with 
sovereign  contempt  of  the  man's  pretensions,  that  he  laughed 
while  denouncing  him. 

"Poor  fool,"  he  said,  "doubtless  by  some  means  he  had 
obtained  a  knowledge  of  your  heirship  during  our  residence  at 
my  uncle's  hunting  lodge,  where  we  spent  several  seasons.  He 
is  a  shrewd  man,  our  new  rector.  But  Morton,  I  cannot  think 
so  badly  of  him.  Believe  me,  Zana,  there  is  some  explanation 
behind  all  this.  Morton  is  a  reserved,  perhaps  irresolute  man 
in  some  things,  but  I  cannot  think  him  base,  though  there  was 
a  time  when  I  thought  otherwise." 

"  And  when  was  that  ?"  I  asked. 

"  It  was  rumored,  Zana,  that  he  had  brought  a  companion 
with  him  to  Scotland.  I  heard  of  your  disappearance  from 
Greenhurst  at  the  same  time,  and  believed  you  to  be  the  inmate 
of  that  little  farm-house.  My  mother  joined  in  that  belief." 

"  Poor  Cora,"  I  said,  "  the  odium  of  her  fault  seems  all  to 
rest  on  me,  her  best  friend." 

"  Let  us  wait  before  we  condemn  my  friend,"  said  Irving, 
generously.  In  his  situation  of  unjust  dependence  may  be 
found,  perhaps,  some  excuse  for  all  this.  Believe  me,  dear  one, 
Morton  is  not  a  dishonorable  man." 

"He  is  at  any  rate  the  rightful  owner  of  Marston  Court,"  I 
answered;  "but  with  your  leave,  he  shall  only  take  possession 
of  it  as  Cora's  marriage  portion." 

Irving  smiled,  and  then  we  began  to  talk  of  ourselves  again. 
He  drew  me  close  to  his  side,,  bent  his  flushed  face  to  mine, 
and  whispered  a  thousand  sweet  words  that  have  little  mean 
ing,  except  to  the  one  hea.rt,  which  receives  them  like  drops  of 
honey-dew.  In  our  great  happiness  we  did  not  notice  that  the 
door  had  opened,  and  Lady  Catherine  stood  in  the  entrance 
coolly  regarding  us. 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  419 

We  arose  together,  his  arm  still  around  me,  his  flushed  face 
becoming  serious  and  calm.  "Mother,"  he  said,  "receive 
Zana  kindly,  for  this  morning  she  has  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  !  and  is  there  no  other  way  ?"  faltered  the 
haughty  woman;  "must  this  sacrifice  be  made  ?" 

"Sacrifice!"  exclaimed  Irving,  looking  down  upon  me  with  a 
glance  of  proud  affection;  "why,  mother,  I  have  loved  the  child 
from  the  first  moment  I  saw  her  protecting  'that  deer  so  bravely. 
It  was  this  love  which  rendered  it  impossible  for  me  to  marry 
another." 

The  great  love  in  my  heart  brought  with  it  a  gentle  humility 
unknown  to  my  nature  before.  I  withdrew  myself  from  Irving's 
arm,  and  went  up  to  his  mother,  blushing  and  with  tears  in  my 
eyes. 

"  0,  Lady  Catherine,  do  not  look  so  coldly  on  your  son. 
Love  me  a  little  for  his  sake." 

She  reached  forth  her  hand,  drew  me  toward  her,  and  with 
a  regal  bend  of  the  head,  kissed  my  cheek. 

"  My  son,"  she  said,  resigning  herself  gracefully  to  the  inevi 
table,  "  my  son,  you  see  that  a  mother  can  make  sacrifices, 
even  though  her  child  may  refuse  them." 

Before  Irving  could  express  the  gratitude  that  broke  from 
his  eyes  at  this  unexpected  concession,  Lady  Catherine  had  with 
drawn  from  the  room.  Then  I  remembered  how  long  my  own 
stay  had  been,  and  hastened  with  breathless  shame  to  the  hack 
ney  coach  that  still  waited  for  me  at  the  door. 

The  day  was  beautiful,  and  I  dismissed  the  carriage,  resolved 
to  walk  awhile  before  entering  our  lodgings.  As  I  turned  a  cor 
ner  a  gentleman  passed  me  hurriedly,  turned  back,  and  spoke, 

"  Zana,"  he  cried — "  Zana,  I  have  met  you  at  last ;  let  me 
hope  you  are  disposed  to  recognize  me  as  a  friend,  at  least." 

I  was  too  happy  for  indignation,  otherwise  his  audacity  would 
have  met  with  a  sharp  rebuke.  Emboldened  by  this  gentleness, 
he  moved  on  at  my  side,  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  low-voiced 
protestations.  A  spirit  of  mischief  seized  upon  me,  and  I 
answered  him  with  playful  evasions.  He  evidently  was  quite 


4:20  SELF-ABNEGATION. 

ignorant  that  the  secret  of  my  legitimacy,  doubtless  so  long 
known  to  himself,  was  in  my  possession. 

"  In  a  few  days,"  he  said,  impressively,  "  I  shall  be  enabled  to 
claim  you  before  the  whole  world.  I  have  already  taken  orders, 
and  am  now  going  to  render  Lady  Clare  my  thanks  for  the 
Marston  Court  living." 

I  felt  a  smile  quivering  on  my  lips;  for  the  first  time  the  con 
sciousness  that  my  inheritance  had  endowed  me  with  power, 
came  with  force  to  my  heart. 

"  It  will  be  a  useles  s visit,"  I  said,  very  quietly.  "  Lady  Clare 
withdraws  the  promise  she  has  made.  A  man  who  has  so  long 
practised  deceit  and  falsehood,  is  no  proper  person  to  lead 
others  on  their  way  to  heaven.  Let  me  answer  you,  Mr. 
Upham,  the  Marston  Court  Rectory  will  receive  another  incum 
bent  than  yourself." 

He  stood  aghast,  looking  at  me.  "  But  the  living  is  as  good 
as  mine  already.  I  have  even  notified  the  curate  at  Greenhurst 
to  leave  the  parsonage." 

"  No  doubt  j  but  if  he  leaves  Greeuhurst  it  will  most  cer 
tainly  be  to  take  possession  of  the  Marstou  Court  Rectory." 
'f  Upham  forced  a  laugh. 

"  You  speak  positively  for  Lady  Clare  1"  he  said. 

"  I  speak  simply  for  myself,  Mr.  Upham." 

That  instant  I  reached  the  door  of  our  lodgings  and  went  in, 
leaving  my  clerical  friend  in  a  bewildered  state  on  the  sidewalk. 

I  entered  the  little  parlor,  expecting  to  find  Cora  there  alone, 
but  to  my  astonishment  young  Morton  arose  from  the  sofa  where 
she  was  seated,  and  came  toward  me,  a  little  pale  and  anxious, 
but  with  more  dignity  than  I  had  ever  witnessed  in  him  before. 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  "  I  have  just  come  down  from  Scotland  in 
search  ot'  this  dear  runaway  1" 

I  drew  back,  annoyed.     Both  his  manner  and  words  offended 

nie. 

• 

"  Oh,  tell  her,  tell  her  at  once  1"  cried  Cora,  springing  up, 
with  a  face  like  an  April  day,  all  flush,  tears  and  smiles.  "  Tell 
her  it  was  your  wife  who  ran  away  from  you,  like  a  naughty, 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  421 

wicked,  jealous  little  wretch,  as  she  was.  Zana,  dear  Zana,  we 
were  married  all  the  time,  but  I  had  promised  him,  and  could 
not  tell,  you  know,  because  he  was  quite  'sure  that  Lady  Cathe 
rine  never  would  have  given  up  any  of  the  property,  if  she  found 
out  tho.t  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  such  a  poor,  foolish-hearted 
little  good-for-nothing  as  I  was.  There,  Mr.  Morton,  do  sit 
down  and  tell  her  all  about  it.  Remember  she  is  Lady  Clare 
now,  the  best,  most  generous,  the — the — well,  well ;  no  matter 
if  I  am  wild,  that  awful  secret  is  off  my  heart ;  I  feel  like  a  bird. 
Oh,  if  I  had  but  wings  to  fly  away  and  tell  my  blessed,  blessed 
papa." 

Morton  sat  down  upon  the  sofa,  gathering  that  beautiful 
young  wife  to  his  bosom,  and  hushing  her  into  quiet  with  his 
silent  caresses. 

"  It  was  wrong  and  cowardly,  I  know,"  he  said,  "  but  we 
were  both  madly  in  love,  with  no  one  to  heed  us.  Lady  Cathe 
rine  was  determined  that  I  should  follow  her  to  Scotland,  where 
she  promised  to  have  papers  prepared,  returning  a  portion  of 
my  old  uncle  Morton's  estate  to  me.  Separation  seemed  dread 
ful  to  us  both.  It  was  a  wild,  rash  act ;  but  I  persuaded  Cora 
to  come  with  me,  forgetting  all  the  evil  that  might  spring  from 
concealment,  and  afraid  of  Lady  Catherine's  displeasure,  for  she 
seemed  anxious  for  some  excuse  to  delay  the  transfer.  I  per 
suaded  Cora  to  conceal  our  marriage,  and  stay  quretly  in  the 
old  farm-house,  till  Lady  Catherine's  caprices  could  no  longer 
affect  us  ;  but  my  visits  were  necessarily  few,  for  some  vague 
rumor  of  her  presence  in  Scotland  reached  Lady  Catherine,  and 
I  was  compelled  to  be  cautious.  The  poor  child  grew  restless, 
sad,  and  at  last  doubtful  of  my  integrity.  She  was  pining  her 
self  to  death  when  you  found  her,  and  innocently  completed  her 
belief  in  my  faithlessness." 

"  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  brave  everything,  and  avow 
that  she  was  my  wife,  on  the  very  day  that  Cora  left  Scotland. 
It  was  a  desolate  reception  that  the  old  people  gave  me.  Cora, 
I  could  feel  for  the  loneliness  of  your  father,  then." 


422  SELF-ABNEGATION. 

"  Let  us  go — let  us  go  to  him  !"  cried  Cora,  starting  up,  "  it 
will  never  be  quite  heaven  till  we  get  home." 

"Not  yet,  wait  a  little,  and  we  will  all  go  together/'  I  said, 
turning  to  leave  the  room,  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  I 
stole  away,  leaving  those  two  young  hearts  with  each  other,  too 
full  of  my  own  exquisite  happiness  for  anything  but  the  selfish 
ness  of  solitude.  * 

We  entered  Greenhurst  quietly,  and  after  nightfall,  Lady 
Catherine,  Cora,  Moreton  and  myself.  Irving  was  to  follow  us 
in  a  few  days,  but  Chaleco,  to  whom  I  had  given  all  Papita's 
gold  for  the  use  of  his  tribe,  remained  behind.  We  drew  up 
at  the  parsonage.  The  curtains  of  the  parlor  were  drawn  apart, 
and  sitting  in  the  twilight  within,  was  the  shadowy  presence  of 
a  man  stooping  downward,  in  sorrow  or  thoughtfulness,  as  if 
the  position  had  become  habitual. 

Cora  drew  close  to  her  husband,  and  by  the  faint  light  I  could 
see  her  eyes  dilate  and  darken  with  excitement. '  She  saw  that 
shadowy  presence  and  struggled  forward,  pushing  impotently 
at  the  carriage  door  with  both  hands,  and  crying  out — 

"  My  father  1  my  father  !" 

The  shadow  gathered  itself  suddenly  up,  and  opening  the 
window,  called  out  in  a  low,  wild  voice  : — 

"  Who  calls  ?  who  calls  ?  did  some  one  say  father  ?" 

The  carriage  door  sprang  open,  Cora  leaped  to  the  ground, 
sped  like  a  bird  up  the  walk,  and  disappeared  in  the  porch. 
Directly,  there  came  a  strange  sound  through  the  open  window 
— mingled  sobs,  caresses,  and  holy  fragments  of  prayer,  broken 
up  with  gushes  of  thanksgiving.  Morton  fell  back  in  the  car 
riage.  I  saw  him  cover  his  face  with  both  hands,  and  felt  that 
he  trembled. 

"  Heaven  forgive  me  1"  he  muttered  ;  "  heaven  forgive  me 
the  misery  I  have  caused  this  good  man  1" 

I  was  looking  toward  the  parlor.  Mr.  Clark  had  fallen 
back  in  his  chair,  and  Cora  was  bending  over  him.  His  face 
was  like  that  of  a  glorified  saint.  His  lips  moved,  but  gave 


SELF-ABNEGATION.  423 

forth  nothing  but  broken  smiles.  Cora  fell  forward,  embracing 
his  knees.  Her  beautiful  face  was  uplifted  like  Guide's  Hope, 
but  with  a  shadow  of  penitent  sorrow  upon  it. 

"  Father  !  father  1" 

He  stooped  forward  and  folded  the  sweet,  tearful  face  to  his 
bosom,  tenderly  as  the  mother  hushes  her  grieved  infant. 

"  Bless  thee,  oh,  my  child  !     The  God  of  heaven  bless  thee  !" 

Faithful  to  the  holy  type  of  Christianity,  the  good  man  was 
ready  to  forgive  with  the  first  breath  of  concession,  even  with 
out  knowing  the  extent  of  her  fault. 

"  Father,  you  forgive  us  ;  see,  it  is  my  husband  ;  I  am  very, 
very  happy,  father." 

Weary  with  our  long  journey,  and  overcome  with  emotion, 
Cora  flung  her  arms  around  that  honored  neck  ;  and  just  as  her 
husband  came  up,  fainted  quite  away  on  her  father's  bosom. 

"  Give  her  to  me,  sir,"  said  Morton,  approaching  the  group, 
pale  and  agitated  ;  "  I  am  her  husband,  and  with  her  pray 
your  foigiveness." 

The  young  husband  faltered  ;  the  good  man  looked  up,  with 
every  feature  of  his  face  in  commotion. 

"  Take  her,  then,"  he  said,  placing  his  child  in  Morton's  arms; 
"  I  have  only  blessings  to  give— tears  and  blessings  for  you 
both." 

Morton  carried  his  wife  to  the  dear  old  couch  of  white 
dimity,  which  made  my  heart  throb  as  I  looked  that  way.  A 
few  moments  restored  her  to  consciousness. 

"It  is  Zana  who  brings  us  back — bless  Zana,  father  !"  she 
said,  faintly. 

"  Zana,"  he  exclaimed,  bending  over  me  with  touching 
solemnity,  and  pressing  both  palms  on  my  head,  as  in  the  olden 
times  ;  "  God  bless  thee,  forever  and  ever,  Zana  !" 

The  very  touch  of  those  hands,  quivering  with  joy,  was  a 
benediction.  His  tears  fell  upon  my  forehead,  the  holy  tears 
of  a  Christian  heart  broken  up  with  tenderness.  I  could  not 
speak,  but  with  this  new  baptism  on  my  brow,  entered  upon 
my  inheritance. 


SELF-ABNEGATION. 

My  inheritance  !  yes.  We  drove  to  Greenhurst,  for  such  was 
Lady  Catherine's  wish,  but  I  would  not  enter.  While  the  ser 
vants  were  busy  receiving  her,  unconscious  of  a  new  mistress,  I 
stole  off  and  flew  like  a  bird  to  iny  old  home.  The  moon 
was  up,  and  I  could  see  my  way  through  the  wilderness  and 
across  the  garden,  but  here  I  paused  with  checked  breath,  for 
in  the  midst,  still  sheltered  by  trees  and  shadowed  with  vines, 
stood  the  cottage,  darkened  and  solitary,  as  if  every  living 
thing  had  deserted  it. 

With  a  heavier  tread,  I  went  round  the  house  to  our  old  sit 
ting  room.  Here  a  gleam  of  light  stole  out  upon  the  vines, 
and  through  the  window  I  saw  Turner  and  his  wife  sitting 
drearily  together.  She  was  looking  in  his  face.  His  eyes 
were  turned  on  the  blank  wall,  as  if  he  did  not  care  to  receive 
even  her  sympathy. 

I  opened  the  door  and  stood  within  it  attempting  to  speak, 
but  with  no  power.  Maria  started  up. 

"  Zana  !  Zana  !" 

I  flung  myself  on  her  bosom.  She  smothered  me  with  her 
kisses,  while  blessed  old  Turner  stood  pleading  for  one  look  at 
my  face,  that  he  might  be  sure  it  was  his  child. 

We  sat  up  all  night.  Not  once  alone,  but  twenty  times,  I 
was  forced  to  repeat  the  romance  I  had  been  living.  Over  and 
over  again  they  told  me  how  heartbroken  they  were  when  old 
Jupiter  came  back  with  his  empty  saddle,  and  bridle  trailing  in 
the  dust.  For  weeks  old  Turner  had  searched  for  me.  For 
mouths  he  had  done  nothing  but  mourn.  Jupiter  had  pined 
like  the  rest.  My  absence  had  flung  everything  into  shadow. 

But  I  was  home  again — home  again — not  for  a  time,  but  for 
all  the  days  of  my  life — the  mistress  of  Greenhurst  and  the 
betrothed  wife  of  Irving.  Turner  kept  repeating  this  over  and 
over,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room.  He  could  not 
realize  it.  In  truth,  I  think  he  did  not  quite  admit  all  the  facts 
to  his  belief,  till  he  saw  me  cantering  off  on  Jupiter's  back  the 
next  morning.  Dear  old  Ju,  what  a  glorious  ride  we  had 
over  the  uplands  that  day  I 


THE     OLD     TOWER     CHAMBER.  425 


CHAPTER    LVI. 

THE     OLD     TOWER     CHAMBER. 

IT  was  my  bridal  morning.  I  sat  within  my  own  pretty 
chamber,  for  from  the  cottage  that  had  been  my  first  shelter, 
not  from  the  mansion  which  was  only  my  inheritance,  I 
resolved  that  Irving  should  take  his  bride.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  was  clad  in  pure  white.  No  summer  cloud  was  ever 
more  soft  and  vapory  than  the  flow  of  my  robe.  The  bridal 
veil,  crowned  by  a  garland  of  pale  blush  roses,  fell  like  a  web 
of  exquisite  frost-work  around  me.  Pearls  gleamed  like  hail 
stones  amid  the  snow  of  this  dress,  and  a  single  white  rose-bud, 
hidden  in  moss,  gathered  its  cloudiness  over  my  bosom. 

Cora  and  my  blessed  old  bonne  had  done  this  fairy  work, 
and  I  was  not  to  see  myself  tijl  the  toilet  was  complete.  At 
last  they  led  me  up  to  the  mirror.  As  I  looked  in,  a  faint  pang 
seize^  me,  for  the  whiteness  of  my  dress  struck  inward,  and 
drifts  of  snow  seemed  crowding  against  my  heart.  A  vague 
dread  of  some  unseen  presence  brought  the  old  shudder  upon 
me.  I  looked  around  in  chill  apprehension  for  my  mother's 
face.  As  I  turned,  a  gush  of  sunshine  come  through  the  pink 
and  white  window-curtains,  flooding  me  from  head  to  foot  with 
its  rosy  glow.  I  felt  the  brightness  and  the  warmth.  For  one 
instant  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  mother's  soft  eyes  looked  upon 
me  through  the  floating  haze.  My  heart  swelled  again.  A 
smile  sprang  to  my  lips.  The  coldness  had  forever  departed 
from  my  bosom.  The  chill  of  my  mother's  death  was  quenched 
in  the  glory  of  my  new  life. 

The  sound  of  bells  sweeping  up  through  the  beautiful  morn 
ing  came  to  my  chamber,  filling  my  soul  with  a  sweet  tranquil- 


426  THE     OLD     TOWEK     CHAMBER. 

lity.  On  this  day  began  the  calm  of  my  life.  I  went  forth 
garlanded  with  bridal  roses,  on  which  the  dew  still  rested,  and 
with  old  Turner  by  my  side  rode  to  the  church  along  the 
road  where  the  wedding  of  my  father  and  the  funeral  of  his 
bride  had  passed  by  me,  a  poor  gipsy  beggar,  lying  sick  and 
dizzy,  with  returning  life  in  the  open  field.  I  thought  of  all 
this  with  gentle  sadness,  but  it  could  not  reach  the  heaven  in 
my  heart.  The  iron  thread  had  melted  away  from  the  gold  of 
my  destiny.  The  altar  was  graced  with  roses  that  made  the 
air  fragrant  with  their  breath,  as  we  knelt  before  it.  Mr. 
Clark,  that  day  appointed  rector  of  Marston  Court,  clasped 
our  hands  together  before  it,  and  sent  us  forth  into  the  beautiful 
eternity  of  our  love. 

Marston  and  Cora,  the  new  lord  and  lady  of  Marston  Court, 
stood  by,  regarding  us  with  gentle  affection,  while  lady 
Catherine,  yielding  to  her  own  interests,  but  half  reconciled  at 
heart,  looked  down  in  sovereign  pride  on  Mr.  Turner,  from 
whose  hands  her  high-born  son  was  willing  to  receive  his  bride, 
for  who  else  had  the  right  to  give  me  away  ? 

As  we  turned  from  the  altar,  I  saw,  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
church,  the  dark  face  of  Chaleco.  He  was  looking  at  me  with 
a  wild,  mournful  expression,  that  seemed  more  sombre  from  the 
shadows  in  which  he  stood.  He  answered  my  smile,  .which 
invited  him  to  approach,  with  a  moody  wave  of  the  head  j  but 
as  we  went  down  the  aisle,  he  came  toward  us." 

"  Zana,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "  if  these  people  wrong 
you,  if  in  all  things  they  do  not  regard  Aurora's  child  as  a 
queen,  send  the  ruby  earrings  to  Chaleco.  During  a  few  months 
he  will  be  with  his  people,  and  even  after  he  is  gone  the  man 
or  woman  who  offends  you  shall  feel  their  vengeance." 

"  Oh,  there  will  be  no  need,"  I  answered,  regarding  my  hus 
band  with  a  heart-swell  ;  "  but  for  yourself,  Chaleco,  my  more 
than  friend,  for  your  people — yours  and  mine,  count — remember 
that  a  portion  of  all  the  wealth  you  have  won  for  us  must  each 
year  go  to  them." 

The  gipsy  count  grasped  my  hand  hard,  his  eyes  sparkled,  he 


THE     OLD     TO^VEB     CHAMBER.  427 

uttered  a  wild  blessing  in  Rommany,  and  left  the  church  before 
we  could  urge  him  to  join  us  at  Greenhurst. 

Amid  the  mellow  chime  of  bells  that  filled  the  air  with  re 
joicings — along  a  path  littered  with  flowers,  rained  over  it  by 
the  village  children — with  the  morning  lighting  up  the  earth 
into  a  paradise,  I  entered  Greenhurst,  its  mistress,  yet  scarcely 
wishing  to  be  that.  It  was  enough  and  too  much  happiness  for 
me  that  I  was  the  wife  of  its  master. 

Three  months  after  my  wedding-day,  I  was  taken  with  a 
sudden  desire  to  visit  Marston  Court.  None  of  my  old  habits 
had  been  laid  aside.  I  still  gloried  in  a  gallop  over  the  uplands 
on  Jupiter  who  grew  young  as  he  undertook  these  wild  rides. 
My  husband  was  absent,  and  Lady  Catherine  now  lived  entirely 
at  Paris.  It  was  not  often  that  my  old  restless  habits  came  on, 
but  this  day  I  was  haunted  with  a  feeling  that  some  one  wanted 
me  at  Marston  Court.  I  had  been  thinking  of  Chaleco  all  day, 
with  a  degree  of  anxiety  which  no  reasoning  could  explain  or 
dispel.  These  haunting  thoughts  grew  so  powerful  at  last, 
that  I  ordered  Jupiter  to  be  saddled.  Just  as  I  was  mounting 
him,  a  bit  of  paper  was  placed  in  my  hand  by  a  boy.  It  con 
tained  a  single  sentence  : 

"  Zana,  Aurora's  child,  come  to  me. 

"  CHALECO." 

This  message  was  a  relief.  It  gave  a  reason  for  the  depres 
sing  thoughts  that  had  driven  me  forth.  I  put  my  horse  to  his 
speed,  never  pausing  to  ask  what  direction  we  should  take.  By 
this  time  Marston  Court  was  no  longer  a  picturesque  wilder 
ness  ;  the  gardens  were  almost  in  order  ;  -the  noble  trees  were 
free  from  undergrowth  ;  the  house  itself  princely.  Leaving 
my  horse  in  the  grounds,  I  walked  across  the  garden  to  the 
summer-house,  through  which  the  gipsy  chief  had  conducted 
me  from  the  tower  chamber.  The  mosaic  star  remained,  with 
its  secret  undiscovered,  in  the  pavement.  I  remembered  its 
mechanism,  and  with  a  little  force  wheeled  it  from  the  opening 


428  THE     OLD     TOW  E^R     CHAMBER. 

it  concealed.  The  passage  was  dark,  but  a  little  time  brought 
me  to  a  door  which  opened^into  the  tower. 
•  The  chamber  was  desolate  and  empty.  Ashes  lay  on  the 
hearth  as  when  we  left  it  that  night.  The  same  drapery  of 
cobwebs  fell  in  dusty  festoons  over  the  narrow  windows,  render 
ing  the  room  at  first  so  dim  that  I  could  see  no  object  dis 
tinctly.  But  in  an  instant  I  caught  the  light  of  two  large  eyes 
glaring  at  me  from  a  corner  ;  then  a  pale  face,  distorted  with 
pain,  with  the  dusky  outlines  of  a  human  form,  reposing  on  what 
had  once  been  a  magnificent  couch.  The  glow  of  an  old  velvet 
cushion,  which  still  retained  gleams  of  original  crimson,  was 
insufficient  to  give  a  tinge  of  color  to  that  pallid  face,  which 
seemed  the  more  deathly  from  contrast  with  the  beard  of  iron- 
grey  which  fell  from  it,  like  moss  from  a  blasted  tree. 

"  Zana  !  Zana  !"  said  a  sharp  voice  from  the  couch. 

"  Chaleco,  my  friend,  my  poor  friend,"  I  cried,  throwing  myself 
on  my  knees  by  his  couch,  and  taking  his  hand,  which  lay  so  wet 
and  cold  in  my  clasp,  that  a  sudden  fear  came  upon  me  that  he  was 
dying.  "  Your  hand  freezes  mine — your  whole  frame  quivers  ; 
what  is  the  matter — what  does  this  terrible  prostration  mean  ?" 

"  It  means,"  said  Chaleco,  pointing  his  finger  to  a  vial  that 
had  rolled  from  his  hand  half  across  the  floor,  where  it  lay 
uncorked,  with  its  purple  contents  oozing  drop  by  drop  from 
the  neck — "it  means  that,  like  Aurora,  Chaleco  has  fulfilled 
his  oath.  That  night,  Zana,  when  you  lay  in  Papita's  tent, 
while  the  rubies  burned  in  her  ears  with  the  color  of  Lady 
Clare's  blood — that  night,  while  the  death  throes  were  at  her 
heart,  she  made  me  swear  an  oath  that  our  revenge  for 
Aurora's  death  should  be  completed  by  the  overthrow  of  every 
living  Clare  ;  that  by  craft  or  violence  I  would  wrest  away 
their  wealth  for  our  people,  and  make  you — her  last  of  race 
— a  queen  at  Granada  ;  or  failing,  die  like  a  poisoned  dog  by 
this  hand.  As  the  last  death-rattle  left  her  throat  she  pressed 
the  drao  into  my  palm.  Look,  you  see  it  yonder  dripping 
like  gouts  of  black  blood  drop  by  drop  from  the  vial.  From 
that  day  I  have  carried  it  in  my  boson.  Zana,  Zana  !  I  have 


THE     OLD     TOWER     CHAMBER.  429 

bought  your  happiness  with  my  vengeance  and  my  life ;  now  tell 
me,  on  your  soul — if  human  beings  have  souls — are  you  happy?" 

"  But  for  this  knowledge — but  for  your  danger — oh,  heavens! 
that  it  should  have  been  done  for  me — I  am  happy,  Chaleco." 

A  smile  trembled  over  his  white  mouth,  he  reached  forth  his 
quivering  hands  and,  seizing  my  garments,  drew  me  down  to  his 
embrace. 

"  Live  in  peace,"  he  said  ;  "her  fate  is  atoned  for.  It  was 
vengeance  on  them,  or  death  to  myself.  I  have  parted  with 
my  people.  A  new  count  reigns  in  my  place.  I  had  the  choice 
and  wandered  back  to  die  with  you,  Zana." 

"  Oh,  Chaleco,  it  was  a  wicked  oath  ;  sinful  in  the  taking, 
doubly  sinful  in  the  keeping." 

"Hush,  Zana,  is  was  that  you  might  live  free  from  Papita's 
curse." 

I  looked  at  him  in  dismay,  the  death  shadows  were  gather 
ing  on  his  features. 

"  You  are  in  great  pain.  Oh,  my  friend,  is  it  death  ?"  I 
questioned. 

"  Pain  I  yes,  I  might  have  made  it  the  work  of  an  instant,  but 
gave  myself  time  ;  every  moment  of  your  presence  I  have 
bought  with  a  pang  ;  but  I  could  not  die  without  you,  Zana." 

"  And  must  you  die — die  in  this  desolate  place  ?"  I  said, 
shuddering  as  his  arms  loosened  and  fell  from  around  me. 

"  I  like  this  best,",  said  Chaleco,  rising  to  one  elbow,  and 
casting  his  glittering  eyes  around  the  room.  "  A  Caloe  count 
should  not  die  in  the  sun's  light,  while  his  people  grovel  in  the 
dark  earth.  I  am  but  a  shadow  now,  Zana,  fast  melting  away 
into  dark  nothingness  ;  this  place  is  fittest." 

"  Not  so,  not  so,  my  friend!"  I  cried,  sobbing  out  the  grief  I 
most  truly  felt;  "  cast  aside  these  terrible  ideas  of  death — pray 
to  God — let  me  pray  for  you.  She  will  help  us — Aurora,  whom 
you  loved,  whom  you  shall  surely  see  again." 

The  gipsy  began  to  revive  again.  The  glances  of  his  eyes 
burned  into  mine.  His  frame  shook  like  a  dead  branch  in 
winter. 


430       THE  OLD  TOWER  CHAMBER. 

"  Zana,  do  you  believe  this  ? — do  you  believe  that  Aurora 
lives  in — in — anywhere  ?" 

"  I  do  not  believe — I  know  it,  certainly  as  I  know  that  the 
stars  burn  in  heaven,  or  that  the  earth  is  solid  under  my  feet." ' 

His  eyes  grew  brighter  and  more  eager.  He  turned  over, 
grasping  my  hands  between  both  his. 

"  Zana,  how  am  I  to  reach  her  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  Tell  me 
— tell  me,  before  this  coldness'  reaches  my  heart — tell  me, 
Zana  !" 

"  Pray — pray  to  God." 

"  I  do  not  know  how,"  he  pleaded  ;  "it  is  like  grasping  at 
mist.  What  shall  I  repeat  ? — which  way  must  I  turn  ?" 

The  sight  of  that  poor,  helpless  man  would  have  inspired 
marble  with  a  spirit  of  prayer.  I  was  upon  my  knees  ;  his 
quivering  hands  were  clasped  in  mine.  I  uplifted  them  to 
heaven  with  broken  sobs — with  tears  and  a  burning  eloquence 
with  which  no  prayer  for  my  own  soul  had  ever  yet  ascended  to 
heaven. 

As  I  prayed,  his  hands  were  softly  withdrawn  from  mine.  I 
paused,  and  through  the  agony  of  my  tears  saw  those  poor 
fingers  tremblingly  clasp  around  each  other,  and  uplift  them 
selves.  Broken  words  wavered  on  his  lips.  He  seemed  looking 
at  something  afar  off  in  the  dim  shadows  of  the  room. 

"  Chaleco  1"  I  cried,  in  affright. 

His  hands  fell  apart  and  dropped  slowly  down,  touching  mine, 
like  ice  ;  his  eyes,  glazed  and  fireless,  turned  upon  my  face. 

"  Aurora  !  Aurora  I" 

Was  it  a  prayer  that  Chaleco  uttered  when  he  gasped  forth 
my  mother's  name  ?  I  hope  so.  I  believe  so. 


THE   END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


"I     fe»  end  of  Sir//.  . 
'        St^/ect  to  recaii  f_ M6     47! 


80 


REC.CIR.JAN2  2 


.UTO  DISC  CIRC   SEP  29 '93 


General  Library 


ri/wT 


M174952 


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